


The Seven Bind Their Fate

by RoseHeart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, F/M, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 191,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHeart/pseuds/RoseHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Jaime became a prisoner of Renly Baratheon, instead of Robb Stark, and he met Brienne earlier? This story delves into the changing nature of Jaime and Brienne's relationship in a time of war and shifting alliances and then explores how their journey, and the land, is changed by this small twist of fate.  </p><p>Updated about every two weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Whispering Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I have been working on this WIP since August and have 10 chapters complete (about halfway through the story), so I thought I should start posting before I lost the nerve! It is inspired by two scenes with J/B, that I could not get out of my head, and how events from ASOIF would have to change for one or both to be present for them. It has taken a mind of its own since then. The first half of this story goes into the relationship development and the second part involves more of Westeros and more characters that I will tag later.
> 
> I cannot continue without thanking my beta, my friend, my support: Coraleeveritas. She has read paragraphs and chapters over and over again and has helped me with timelines and characters and plot points. I feel like she has put as much time into this work as I have and there are no words to describe how deeply grateful I am for everything that she has done not only for this story, but for me. This would have never happened without her. Thank you!!!!!
> 
> And I must also thank another kindred spirit: Sandwichesyumyum. Her comments on all of the chapters and her continual enthusiasm for everything Coralee and I have bled into this has been a life line for me, especially because I was so scared to share this with anyone but my trusted beta! Not only that, but she is an amazing person and I am honored to call her my dear friend.
> 
> I really hope you all find this a nice distraction while we wait for Season 4!

The woods absorbed the sounds of blades being drawn and horse’s hooves pounding the cold winter ground, but the tall evergreens could not drown out the rush of Jaime’s ragged breath as he hissed through his teeth.  He was not sure if the bright moonlight that sliced through the forest, glinting off of steel and armor, was an advantage for his men or the enemy’s. It allowed him to see through the tall, rough trunks of the trees, catching sight of riders darting on the outskirts of his forces, pushing against the boundaries of their formation and trying to find a weakness to exploit.  Hearing the clear snap of banners cracking the frigid air would force Jaime’s eyes from his group, from the gap in the dense foliage that could give him the edge he was seeking.  _We are surrounded by a sea of fish_ , he thought, spotting another Tully sigil marching in the distance.

It made little matter, really, who had come across his men in the dead of night.  They would be defeated like every other harried band that had tried to bring down the Kingslayer.  Jaime had been rather disappointed that the Riverlands was so easy to take, but he hoped that by conquering Catelyn Stark’s home, he may rouse the wolves from their den.  He longed to sink his teeth into the young pup, the King of the North, and send the rest of the pack whimpering back to Winterfell, tails between their legs.  They would pay for capturing his brother and for sending Jaime into these cold, lonely woods when he could be warming Cersei’s bed, now that it was no longer occupied by the hulking form of her late lord husband.

Yet, there would always be a part of Jaime that sang only for this thrill of battle.  His lust was not simply for his sister alone and he found an almost carnal satisfaction in the song of steel and in the warmth of blood staining forged metal.  Here is where he truly belonged, where he felt the most alive.  In the cover of soft moonlight, surrounded by the smell of horses and death, with a blade in his hand that felt like an extension of his being, Jaime Lannister was not the Kingslayer, nor the son of Twyin. He was a member of the Kingsguard, the youngest ever to have served, knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne. He was feared. He was undefeated. He was the Warrior himself.

The Tully forces moved deeper into the woods, avoiding the clearing that Jaime had hoped to make use of, and heading towards a stream that slashed the forest clean in half. They would be slowed down trying to move their mounts through the water, leaving the Lannister party following them enough time to overwhelm their small numbers and cut them down in the confusion.  Perhaps this time the Blackfish would be amongst their ranks.  If Jaime could not face Robb Stark tonight, then Ser Brynden would still be an acceptable prize. 

As the trees began to thin, he drew his sword, cleaned and freshly sharpened, letting some of the front ranks rush before him.  The light blue Tully banners appeared up ahead, but they were no longer flapping behind the soldiers as they rode.  They hung limp as the enemy’s forces simply waited for them, unmoving and fearless. Jaime felt his stomach drop as he realized that he had been lured to this spot.  But who could have known that he would follow?  The lords of Riverrun knew nothing of pride and bloodlust so they could not have predicted what would drive the Kingslayer willingly into a trap. Before his mind could grasp what he knew would be waiting at the edge of the stream, the sound of a lone wolf, howl renting the silence of the forest, sent adrenaline pumping through his coiled body. 

Spurring his horse towards his front line, Jaime strained to pierce through the darkness, searching for the direwolf and its owner. Now he could see the other banners, the dozens of other banners, which lined both sides of the stream. White Stark sigils drifted like ghosts before him and, as he peered over his shoulder to glimpse his rear guard, he saw that the Lannister lion had become swallowed up in the maw of the wolf. In an instant, the enemy closed in and chaos erupted.

Despite the desperation of their situation, Jaime knew that it did not matter how many of his men would never live to see the light and the world beyond these woods; the legacy of this battle would live on as a victory for the South if the King of the North’s head rolled amongst the detritus of this ethereal forest.  Jaime gnashed his teeth against the thought that his party was being torn apart around him and set himself to finding Robb Stark.  This may end up being Jaime’s last night alive, but the pup would pay the debt of having Tyrion captured and, before he took his final breath, Jaime vowed that he would rid Westeros of this nuisance of the North once and for all. This was how he was supposed to die, after all, battling against his sworn enemy, sword in hand, muscles churning from wielding his blade, striking any who stood in his path. He only hoped that Cersei would be proud and that she would forgive him for leaving her alone.

Off to his right, Jaime caught the sound of screams rising over the rumble of a deep, thunderous snarl. A hulking gray blur prowled amongst the trunks of the trees nearby, lunging at any Lannister man that came too close to the pack while keeping a distance from the skittish northern mounts that reared nervously.  Jaime took his chance while the direwolf was occupied, tearing the limb from a knight whose crimson armor disguised some of the blood that was freely flowing from the gaps in his plating.  Jaime circled the group, coming upon them from the opposite side of the beast, running his sword into the first Stark he came across.

The sudden break of men and the shouts to “Protect the King!” attracted what was left of Jaime’s forces, giving him time to push further into the fray, relying on the panic to mask his approach. He continually cut down the knights that tried to stop him, so consumed by rage at himself for allowing his men to fall into this trap and at the young wolf who thought to kill him so easily. He hardly registered the roars and cries of the Stark bannermen as he ruthlessly sliced through as many enemies as he could, barely recognizing how much like _boys_ some of the dead sounded in their last moments.

One more circle of his prey brought Jaime finally to where Robb Stark was battling one of the Lannister lords. He could have easily run his blade through the young man while he was distracted with his current battle. The realization only sent a wash of red into his vision as he found himself clearly in reach of the northerner. _This child thinks to best me and yet he leaves himself vulnerable to attack. He knows little of how to fight and he has too much faith in his men._   Unfortunately for the wolf, he would never live to learn to guard his rear himself.

Something stopped Jaime from taking the killing blow, though.  He grimaced at himself as he called out to make his presence known, to force the King of the North to face him.  “Just finished suckling your mother’s teat, pup?” he hollered just as the boy plunged a short sword cleanly into the neck of his foe.  He whirled his horse to face Jaime, sneering confidently through a patchy beard that made Jaime want to laugh at how terribly young his enemy looked. The moment before he spurred his horse forward, he worried that he had once looked just as ridiculously prideful as the face staring back at him.  But then, he thought, he still felt just that way.

The meeting of their blades sent Jaime’s heart soaring, the world around him fading to a silent haze, centered around the blue spark that lit the night as their swords clashed.  The feel of the strength and speed behind Robb Stark’s attack shocked Jaime almost as much as the throbbing in his arm did at having to bring up his weapon to keep from being carved through.  In only a few seconds, Jaime realized that for the first time his age may be his downfall.  The boy’s moves were sloppy and too aggressive, but his stamina and the swiftness in which he delivered each blow would, eventually, be enough to overpower Jaime. There would be no one to help him, as all of his men were currently being dragged off to become hostages or were bleeding their life into the earth, the silent woods drinking in the souls of hundreds of men who would haunt the forest for eternity.  As his fight continued, it was allowing more time for his forces to dwindle in number before the young wolf’s bannermen could reach them, joining to bring the Kingslayer down.  Jaime could only hope that Robb Stark’s arrogance would force him to forget about the advantages of negotiating with King’s Landing.  A Lannister son locked in a Stark cell could be a valuable weapon, but Jaime would rather die before he would rot under the King of the North’s hand.

A few more hits and Jaime would not be able to keep back the blade that would end him.  He was huffing just as hard as his horse, which was trying to scoot away to bite at the Stark mount.  It was only a small comfort that Robb Stark was also wheezing heavily through his helm, though it was clear that he was as aware of the inevitable outcome of this fight as well as Jaime, brandishing his sword grandly, expecting to put on a show for any that could see them.  Jaime had no intention of being made a fool.  He may die from the sword.  He may be a tasty, handsome morsel for that infernal beast that was looming closer. But he would not be a mockery. So, he raised his own sword to meet what would have been the final slash and reared back his other gauntleted fist to punch the intolerable Robb Stark right under his chin.

There was one single moment of hope as the boy tilted on his horse, body and saddle sliding away from him, while Jaime willed him to topple.  It was gone as soon as he had lost sight of the direwolf, though, for when he saw it again, it had leapt over its master and right into Jaime’s chest.  Its paws forced him to the ground violently, his head slamming against the frozen dirt.  Stars and spots of white searing light blinded him temporarily before a darkness, deeper than the night, closed in on him.  The last images and feelings he experienced, before welcoming the black, were the pressure of the immense wolf keeping him to the floor, its breath reeking of blood and decay while it snapped its jaw above Jaime’s nose, growling low in a throat that had probably swallowed its fill of meat for the night. But what was one more scrap? _The lion eaten by the wolf. Literally.  How romantic._

The world slipped away from Jaime, saving him from the terror of having to feel the first bite of his demise.

 

It was an unfortunate and painful truth that Jaime Lannister had yet again survived.  He awoke just in time to be dragged before the King of the North, bloodied, weak, and annoyed.  One of his charming, sardonic smiles only provided him a harsh grimace from his captor. The Starks were all so _boring_ and it seemed the young wolf had adopted his father’s honorable, stolid demeanor.  It meant that even if Jaime did not live much longer, the boy would not meet the Stranger much further after him.  If it was not by his own hand, however, Jaime had little care for how Robb Stark died.

As he was forced to his knees, bound hands making him struggle to keep himself from continuing down into the mud, Jaime tried to sound nonchalant.  “I suppose you would like to take my head, pup, now that you are in a better position to do so.”

The muscles in Robb Stark’s jaw clenched as he fought against the angry words rising from his chest.  “As much as I would have liked to have killed you in the Whispering Woods, you are much more valuable as a hostage-“

“He cut down my boy!” came a shout from the crowd that had gathered.  “The Kingslayer must pay for Torrhen.”

Jaime watched the king carefully as a murmur of assent rose from his men.  _Why not force the wolf’s hand… or paw, as it was?_ “Tell me, since when are armed men in battle supposed to be spared because they are sons? Should I not also be let go? I am a son as well as a brother!”

“You are a murderer,” Robb Stark hissed before he could swallow down the comment.  The flash in his cold eyes told Jaime that he realized his mistake as soon as the words flew from his inexperienced mouth.

“Ah, so is that my final sentence…Your Grace?” Jaime replied, enjoying the realization on Robb Stark’s face as he lost control of the situation.

“No.  You will be confined to the cells and beg for the mercy of the honor of my bannermen. You may know nothing of loyalty, Kingslayer, but they will not harm you unless I order them to and there is no one to stop me from changing my mind about that.”

Jaime spent the next weeks pacing a hastily made cell that was surrounded by trusted Stark soldiers. He was exposed to the elements, shivering through frigid cold and icy rains.  They fed him sparingly, keeping him at the edge of life so that he wished every day that the direwolf had simply closed its jaws around his neck in the woods. That same rotten beast paced outside his cell daily, waiting for death to finally take him so that it would feast on his body, though Jaime doubted he would be as delicious a snack as he had been before his imprisonment.

 

As the days wore on and he lost count of how long he had been held, Jaime resolved that if he had been able to live this long that he would continue to do so.  The camp moved frequently, but the men were becoming restless, easily breaking up small skirmishes that they came across, but dreaming of more heroic battles.  The desire to put an end to this monotonous war sent many to the cages of his cell, hungrily eyeing him, hoping that executing the Kingslayer would stop their long, chilly nights away from their homes and their families.  Jaime had no desire to allow them the satisfaction, however, as he thought of his own woman who was waiting for him back in King’s Landing. He would live tonight and every night after, fighting his way back to the only woman he ever wanted to love.

But he was no stranger to the hunger in the eyes of the Stark bannermen.  He would not survive much longer if their bloodlust was not fulfilled and, as the time passed by, he suspected that even another large clash with Lannister knights could not quell the desire for his head.

It appeared that Robb Stark was also sensing the discomfort amongst his ranks.  He would occasionally visit his hostages, as Jaime learned that there were at least a dozen other lords and knights held within the camp.  The young wolf would study the old lion, a deep frown tearing his unmarred, soft face.  They would regard each other without saying a word, for once Jaime did not need to speak to make his point or to cause discomfit in his audience. Robb Stark was as aware of his fate as Jaime Lannister was and it was rather satisfying to see the stubborn boy suddenly doubt the faith of those he surrounded himself with.

The only real bright point in the dull monotony of being shuffled from one camp to the next was the moment when he thought he could escape.  Two guards had been standing next to him, waiting for the men to lazily set up the bamboo bars to his traveling cage.  No one seemed particularly disturbed by the Kingslayer’s presence, ragged and gaunt as he looked, clanking merrily as the chains that connected his cuffed wrists twisted with his movements.  He was not particularly perturbed by his state, no, his father would ensure that he be freed any day now and all this would be forgotten the moment he settled himself between Cersei’s legs.  What truly angered him was the nonchalance that the Stark men now portrayed around him. It appeared the young wolf had been right about the loyalty of his men, for none dared to approach or harm him. But as he became a permanent piece of the camp’s erection and dismantling, the men had begun to ignore his presence. There were no more sidelong glances or sneers or the hissing of a blade being threateningly drawn from its scabbard. A squire had actually tripped over the edge of his enclosure the other day, seemingly not even realizing it was there. Jaime could have none of that. He did not enjoy being the Kingslayer, though he embraced it well enough, but he had pride in being a Lannister. And Lannisters always paid their debts.

So, as Jaime and his guards waited for his warm and cozy home to be completed, he took the opportunity given to him as, for once, the blasted direwolf was off hunting, leaving him with only men to deal with. The young boy to his right was picking his teeth with his dagger while the larger, stronger knight on his left was distracted by a rather buxom camp follower that was tending to a stew nearby.  Without much thought, Jaime reached over and snatched the dagger from the boy’s hand. He was not the greater threat, so Jaime used the blade to sink it into the neck of the man on his other side, effectively bringing him to his knees.  When Jaime turned again, he found the lad gaping, too shocked to raise the alarm, though the workers at his cage were doing that just fine. The knife was still embedded in the knight, so Jaime looped his chains around the boy’s throat and pulled from behind. He dodged flailing limbs, following the body down to the earth as the boy choked out his last breath. Then Jaime ran.

It was not a successful escape and apparently the boy had been yet another son of some loyal Stark bannerman and the knight turned out to be a hero from one of the King of the North’s victorious battles. These truths only served to further enrage the camp and satisfy Jaime slightly, as his escape had left little doubt that his head would adorn a spike within the fortnight. He planned to try to run again, just to be sure Robb Stark was more occupied with keeping his enemy alive than his own men.  But, perhaps it was luck or perhaps the young wolf was smarter than other northerners, as the problem of Jaime Lannister was quickly solved in the following days. 

To much fanfare and a horrid display of lascivious colors amongst the dreary landscape of winter in the Riverlands, Renly Baratheon arrived at the Stark camp.  Jaime had spent little time with the youngest stag, finding the man to be less talented with the metal sword in his hand as he boasted, though Jaime was certain he handled other kinds of swords much better.  He also detested Renly’s childish obsession with his brother Robert.  He had always openly fantasized about being more like the former king, making Jaime wonder if it was the drinking or the whoring that had fascinated Renly so much. Despite disliking the man, Jaime was thrilled to see him now. Though he was no less an enemy, he was the lesser of two evils.

It appeared that Renly was just as eager to see him because after only a cursory tour of the camp and the forces that Robb Stark controlled, the retinue came to a stop in front of Jaime’s cage. The young wolf motioned for his men to step back, out of earshot, leaving Jaime to have an intimate conversation with the two kings, while his manacled hands rested casually on the bars between them.

“Renly!” he started jovially. “My gods, you look terrible! War is not your color, I’m afraid.”

“I see that months in captivity have not stilled your tongue, Jaime,” Renly replied airily.  He brandished a parchment in front of his face.  “I suppose your sister will be glad to hear that since she seems to utilize it often.”

There had been whispers in the camp of a letter sent out by Stannis to all the lords in Westeros, claiming his right to the throne and lambasting Cersei’s children as bastards, products of incest. Since it was all true, Jaime saw no need in denying the situation, but he was not foolish enough to ignore the consequences to his sister and her children if he paraded around the Riverlands, renouncing Joffrey’s hold on the crown.  Still, he could control himself only so much.  “Oh, we all know now that she uses more of me than just that. I would offer to be of assistance to _you_ , but I am terribly faithful to one and only one.”

Robb was shaking slightly next to Renly, face red and fists clenched, but neither Jaime nor Renly feigned to notice his quiet rage. “Let’s get to the point, My Lord. I am beyond tired of having the Kingslayer in my presence.”

Jaime laughed, enjoying the thought that though he was the one caged, the boy was the one actually trapped. He was caught by honor and duty. He was held down by the people he was supposed to protect and by the vows he had made. Jaime would take his physical bars any day over such responsibilities.  He tsked, “I thought you and I were becoming fast friends, wolf. I was hoping I could replace the brother you lost-“

“You didn’t kill Bran, you monster!” the King of the North shouted.  He slammed his fists into the cage, shaking Jaime’s chains and the posts.  “I _should_ kill you for enjoying murdering children.”

Jaime had enough of Robb Stark. He sounded so much like his self righteous, ignorant father that he thought it might be worth a beheading to reach out and swipe at the boy.  He growled low, moving closer to the pair.  “You have killed your fair share of children in battle, too, pup. Your blood sings for steel just as the next man’s.  What does your mother’s sigil say…family, duty, honor? Hmph, you would have done the same thing I did if that boy had not been your brother.  We are not so different in that.”

“Seven hells, Jaime, just close your mouth for once,” Renly interjected as he placed a calming hand on Robb Stark’s shoulder. “You are lucky you are such a useful hostage, otherwise you would have been long dead because of it. As it is, Robb can barely ensure your safety even right under his nose.”

“Are you jealous? I can’t help it if I have charmed every man in this camp.”

That jibe finally sent Robb Stark huffing, turning on his heel and stalking back towards his tents, his knights falling in line behind him.  Renly stayed, watching the retreating wolf with Jaime. “He would be such a gloomy king,” the stag seemed to mutter to himself.

“He is more lively than your dear brother…either of them,” Jaime said, impatiently trying to draw attention back to himself. “None of you will unite your men completely and none of you will garner enough support to take the Iron Throne from the rightful heir.  People will hardly take anything Stannis preaches as truth and that parchment might as well be blank for all Westeros cares.  You are wasting men’s lives for nothing.”

“Robb Stark and I have enough men to put up quite a fight and since he has no interest in the throne, we are more than willing to make an alliance.  This parchment will distract Stannis long enough and w _hen_ he finds proof, it will only aide our cause. Ned Stark was a blind fool, but my single minded brother is relentless and he will find what Lord Eddard almost grasped.” Jaime had nothing to say to that since he feared it to be the truth. However jovial and witty Renly may be, though, he was a terrible strategist and he hated getting his hands dirty. This stag and wolf alliance may appear troublesome for King’s Landing, but Robb Stark’s pride and Renly’s laziness would tear them up from within, well before the Mud Gate ever came into view.

Renly shrugged at him.  “Perhaps by the time we sack the south, you will be back in your white cloak.  Hopefully this time you are willing to die for your king.  Robert found you entertaining and though I doubt you had anything to do with his death, I am sure you are bedding the one who did. For Robert and my honor, I plan on treating you a little better than the Starks, but I can just as easily throw you back to the wolves should you try to escape.”

Apparently, Renly had already begun negotiations with the Lannisters about exchanging Jaime for some of the Stark hostages and a retreat of forces near High Garden.  Considering that escape had been useless, Jaime figured that months as a political prisoner in Renly’s boisterous camp were much more preferable to being treated like a stray cat amongst the wolves.  With Renly, Jaime was given a large tent to himself and two of the king’s knights, on rotation at all hours.  He was dressed finely, though he was denied even protective mail to wear, and he was warm, clean, and well fed.  With his guards always following, he was also given freedom of the camp. It was larger and more spread out than the Stark camp, but while the northerners were on the move regularly, Renly enjoyed being comfortable in the same spot.  Compared to the nightly silence of the wolf camp, which allowed only a few fires to be lit even in the coldest evenings, the Baratheon party could have been mistaken for a traveling mummer’s show, so lit up by fires, rowdy songs filling the air, and wine and ale always at the ready. It was obvious to Jaime how Renly had attracted his bannermen, just as it was clear how poorly they would do if faced in an actual battle.  It seemed that Renly’s strategy was to simply wait until all the other kings had killed one another so that he could sneak in to snatch up the crown without the bloodshed of his own men.  Jaime wanted to tell him that it was a dishonorable plan, but then, who would listen to the Kingslayer?

 

The weeks passed much more comfortably as a political prisoner, though Jaime still kept an eye on any weaknesses in the camp in case a glaring opportunity to escape came up again.  The Baratheon men held no grudges against him really, either as a Lannister or as the Kingslayer, but Renly took to ignoring his presence. The king drank with the men and joined to watch the entertainment for the evening, always with his radiant and sensual bride on his arm.  Margery Tyrell was not as beautiful as Cersei, but she carried her own grace and flaunted her sexuality enough to turn the eye of most of the men in the camp. She could not attract the attention of all of them, Jaime noted, for there were a few that lingered on her lord husband and his constant companion, Loras Tyrell, but it was hardly a secret in King’s Landing of the youngest Baratheon’s proclivities. It appeared that the stag had decided to pick a pretty rose as consort, just not the one he had married.

While it seemed that Jaime had a clear notion in his mind of the makings of Renly’s army, one day he spotted something, or rather someone, that gave him pause.  What caught his eye at first was a broad figure that loomed over even the tallest of knights and for a moment, Jaime wondered if the Clegane clan contained a third, younger brother.  He seemed like a strange follower to be in the Baratheon camp, as Renly enjoyed surrounding himself with beautiful people and he clearly fought a grimace every time one of his more robust bannermen, especially Randyll Tarly, presented themselves. In order to lessen the insult of unattractive lords, the king had taken to “gifting” his men with the finest suits of armor, no matter how useless they were in battle, and the most expensive clothing that he could procure.  Jaime imagined that the simpering stag would have a fit if he came across such an ugly beast tarnishing the majesty of his camp, which caused Jaime to enjoy the sight all the more.

As the brute stomped away from the training yard, still gripping a heavy sword in his massive hand, Jaime received a shock as he was able to look properly on the man’s face.  The figure that was plowing through the camp like an aurochs, wearing breeches and a tunic that hung loosely under a jerkin that enclosed a broad, flat chest, was, in fact, a woman.  _Perhaps it would be better to term her a female as “woman” was rather forgiving_. It was not her body or her masculine face or short hair that helped him determine her gender, but rather the magnificent blue eyes that could have only belonged to the Maiden herself that convinced him, though it took him a couple glances to finally accept it.  How cruel the gods would seem, if they existed, to have given the most striking gaze Jaime had ever seen to the ugliest creature he had ever come across.

However unbecoming her appearance, Jaime found that his time as a prisoner of Renly’s might not be so dull after all. He had never hoped to have found something more amusing than himself to occupy his time away until he found his chance to escape or was returned home, but the female warrior might well be the distraction he needed.


	2. The Maid Of Tarth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support of the beginning of this story! I hope that you will continue to enjoy it! Here we begin the slow journey of Jaime and Brienne, with some hints about what is to come.
> 
> Thank you to my beta (that is such a loaded and emotional word for me now and always) Coraleeveritas. Not only does she have limitless patience, but she has limitless ideas and advice. Brienne would never have been able to escape my mind and have been adequate to me if it was not for Coralee, who knows her so well. Thank you, my friend!
> 
> And thank you to Sandwichesyumyum for being a person that I trusted so much that I could unreservedly give her all the work Coralee and I put in, especially when I was hoarding it and fearful of ever posting.

Brienne had not expected camp life to be so stale. She had dreamt of glorious battles, of victories that would herald the arrival of more great houses to King Renly’s banner, and at least there would be constant movement towards King’s Landing.  True, her thoughts had then turned to saving His Grace in the midst of a fight and being rewarded with a seat by his side.  She would never be able to take the place on his left, where his queen would sit, even if it was not already occupied by the most beautiful woman in Westeros. A man as handsome and chivalrous as Renly Baratheon could never be seen with an ugly brute from a lesser house, but he had been one of the few men to show her kindness and so she found him worth the sacrifice of leaving her home, committing her life to his cause. Her king may never look upon her with love, or even affection, but Brienne knew that she was skilled enough to be a knight and the glory of war had started replacing her fantasies of a lady as the days in camp melted together.

No one spoke to her much, which she had expected as no one even on her home island offered her more than what was respectful. The women in the camp were too feminine to look upon her with anything but disdain, but Brienne could not blame them, for she saw what they did in every reflective surface she passed, and failed to avoid.  Her skin was pallid, not fair of color or porcelain to the touch.  It was covered with a sea of freckles, hardly the light dusting that adorned some maidens.  Her lips were chapped and puffy, not pouty, and they barely concealed large, crooked teeth. Her nose had been broken several times, a feature not even most whores shared, but it did match the masculine line of her jaw and her thickly muscled neck.  Brienne’s hair was the color and texture of straw, hardly golden or luxurious, and it held not even a glint of shimmer as it seemed to absorb the wan rays of the weak winter sun.  She used a knife to keep it short so that it would fit easily in her helm and stay out of her eyes.  But she did it also in the hopes of appearing to be a man from a distance.  She received less stares and heard fewer jeers if it was assumed that she was just another young knight.  She left herself vulnerable if it appeared that she was trying to act like a lady, dressing in skirts that would fall loosely around her, since she had no hips or bosom to fill them out, while they would be pulled taut over her muscled arms.  It would be a travesty to place jewels around her trunk of a neck or in her greasy hair. Brienne would not want such lovely things tainted by her touch.

When she had been younger, the realization of her ugliness, and the life it would subject her to, had made her cry for too many nights to count.  But this was the form the gods had given her and saw fit to let her survive where her young siblings had not.  She was the heir to Evenfall, sole surviving child of the Evenstar, and if she could not do her duty as a lady, then she would gain respect for her house as a knight. The hiss of a blade slicing through the air had dried her tears.  The rush of her blood as she developed muscles and fluidity mended her broken heart. The memories of hateful suitors and a disgusted septa were forced out of her mind by fighting stances and defensive techniques that needed to be practiced and memorized.  Brienne of Tarth found her true destiny in the sword, allowing her to armor her body as much as she fortified her heart against the insults and scorn that would rain blows on her innocence for the rest of her days.

Though it was lonely travelling in a camp full of people who had no desire to speak to her, Brienne did not regret her decision. She knew that one day King Renly would have need of her blade and she would be ready.  At first she had tried to train with the other young knights, but though their nicknames of “Brienne the Beauty” did little to affect her, they also staunchly refused to spar with her.  So, she took to wandering the edges of the camp, trying to find the most formidable looking tree to be her partner.  She could not really receive proper practice defending herself by attacking motionless branches, but it allowed her to keep her muscles honed and mind sharp.  The thick wood dulled her blade, but the task of taking a whetstone to her beloved sword each night was relaxing.  She did not pray much to the gods, but as she sat in silence, letting the sounds of scraping steel lull her, she figured that would be the closest to faith that she would get.

One morning, just before the entirety of the camp arose, Brienne was returning to her tent from a practice bout with a tall evergreen.  She was lost in her own thoughts, hoping that today she may catch a glimpse of King Renly or else take her horse out to the small stream she had spotted while making camp the previous day.  She let her feet guide her back to her spot, hardly paying attention as there were few people up and moving so early.  There was no time to react when she realized she was stalking right into the hard form of a man who was looking behind him to call back to another knight. The force of their collision only caused her to take a step back to steady herself, but the man was thrown off balance, arms wheeling and legs bending as he started to sit towards the earth. Instinctively, Brienne reached out to snatch at one of his arms, pulling him towards her so that he could regain his footing.

As he caught his breath, Brienne was able to take a quick look at him and it was all she needed to recognize the Kingslayer. She had never seen any of the Lannisters herself, but she had heard tales of the twins, so beautiful that they must have been birthed from a union of the Warrior finally taking the Maid. Truly, Jaime Lannister was the most breathtaking man Brienne had ever encountered, the thought feeling like a betrayal to her king. 

She had arrived at Highgarden just in time to join the Baratheon army as His Grace hastened to leave and meet his newest allies, the Starks, who had offered up the Kingslayer as a token of trust. Though she had not even caught a glimpse of the prisoner, she had heard some of the grumblings of how he was being treated better than some of the men.  Indeed, he was standing before her dressed in a crimson velvet doublet with a crisp taupe tunic underneath.  His thick brown breeches looked tailored and they fit nicely into new leather boots that were lined with fur.  His cloak was a deep red to match the jerkin, heavy and lined like his custom boots.

The clothes, however, did not impress Brienne, as King Renly liked to outfit some of his lords as well, but she was taken aback by his natural splendor.  His skin was smooth and tanned, though the sun was too weak to add much color to anyone’s cheeks.  His hair fell in silky golden curls that kissed his ears and caressed his muscular shoulders. Brienne could not help but take a swift glance at his plump lips, curled into a grin twisted towards becoming a grimace, flashing white teeth from behind them.  She looked away from his mouth, only to meet simmering emerald eyes, a spark of amusement and annoyance starting to blaze.

She hated everything about him in the single moment she stole to be swept up in the gaze of the most attractive and vile man she would ever meet.  His comeliness only heightened her disgust.  It was clear it was simply a façade that he erected to manipulate and control. He was probably not even as skilled of a knight that people claimed him to be.  He charmed his opponents and supporters, luring them into thinking of him as he chose.  Brienne suddenly pitied the Mad King since it now seemed he had been doomed as soon as Jaime Lannister had weaseled his way into the favors of his loyal men, relying on his name and his looks rather than his blade and honor.  _How could King Renly ever let such a monster roam free amongst his men?_

She averted her eyes, mumbling a polite apology and stepped to the side so that she could walk past him and his guards. His deep, masculine chuckle followed after her, though, spurring her steps faster.

“You must be the ugliest camp follower I have ever seen,” came the harsh rasp of his voice.  He was trailing her.  “Tell me, did the drunken knight who took you last evening kick you out so early in the hopes no one would see his shame?”

Brienne stopped suddenly, rounding back towards the Kingslayer and laying her hand on her sword.  The man was clearly adept at lashing out with his tongue, most likely because he was not good enough with his own blade, but it was not his words that boiled beneath her practice armor, it was the jovial tone that he used to throw them at her.  Typically, insults were applied with venom and hate, bitterness, or supremacy. Jaime Lannister spoke as if he was not trying to break her with offenses, but like he was making a joke that she was supposed to join in on.  Perhaps it was because the words came from the Kingslayer, but Brienne found herself angrier than she could justify and she wanted to make sure that he never thought to try to speak to her again.

“You have no right to address me as such, _Kingslayer_ ,” she hissed.

“Ah, you recognize me,” he replied, halting too close to her body for her comfort.  He was not regarding her anymore and seemed to barely pay attention to what he was saying, but he was staring intently at the large hand that was gripping the hilt of her sword.  “Not surprising, what with my handsome face and all.  It’s only fair, then, that I know your name, now isn’t it?”

Brienne could not stop the unfeminine snort that rushed out of her nose.  The sound brought his gaze back to her face, slipping that infuriating smile back into place. “What kind of a knight must you be to think that ‘Kingslayer’ is an appropriate name?” That sent his lips twitching and he had to control his nonchalant expression.  “There is no need to trade introductions as there will never be a chance for us to cross paths again.”

“Where did you get that sword?” he asked suddenly.

Without even an attempt to answer, Brienne whirled back around, hoping that the blush of fury had not reached her cheeks. She had been so successful in avoiding any altercations with the rest of the camp, biding her time until she could catch the king’s attention with her strength in battle, and now she had caught the amusement of the most hated man in Westeros instead.

“If I do not know what to call you, then I will have to make up names of my own, wench!” he hollered after her, loud enough to draw the stares of some of the men rousing in the camp.

She continued walking, kicking and tripping over branches and rocks strewn across the ground as she tried to hastily make her way back to the privacy of her tent.  When she made it inside and ensured that the flap was securely hiding even a glimpse of the outside, she plopped down onto her cot.  Her hands were shaking as she reached out for a cup of water sitting on the stool that no one used.  She should have better prepared herself for the chance of coming across the Kingslayer.  Anyone who realized she was an ugly woman in men’s clothing, carrying a sword, were motivated to approach her, or at least make sure she saw their stares, so of course Jaime Lannister would not hesitate to make her feel uncomfortable. She shuddered to think what he would have said if he were not a prisoner of war and if he had actually had an audience besides herself and his uninterested guards, who she had recognized as some of those that had already taken their chances to hurl japes at her. She suddenly realized, with horror, that what she had just experienced may very well have been the Kingslayer _holding back_. She swore to herself that she would make every effort to avoid Jaime Lannister until her part in the war had come to an end.

 

The next morning she felt like she had exhausted the rest of her anger at a poor spruce that would probably not survive the winter, unlike herself, who would likely spend it clearing a path through the forest which they may never leave.  A part of her hoped that she would come across the Kingslayer again, only so that she could release some of her desire for a real fight. She could not outlast a contest of words, but she figured that he would make her so furious that it could incite her to throw a punch.  This idea made her even more upset, though it was now directed inwards.  It was unfair to think that King Renly was not simply biding his time, making plans with Robb Stark for the perfect moment to surprise the Lannisters with their dual forces.  And getting her into a physical fight may very well keep her from being ready when His Grace needed her.  Besides, that was precisely what the Kingslayer probably wanted to compel her to do. He most likely saw her as a weakness that would be his means of escape.  Or he could very well be as strung taut as she was, willing to pounce at the first opportunity to do something other than wait.

Brienne was beginning to calm down by the time she found herself back at the tent.  The small semblance of peace that was trying to soothe the racing of her heart quickly turned to ice when she saw the man that was sitting at a log in her spot, tending to a fire that he had created while waiting for her. His guards were a safe distance away, harsh sneers plastered on their faces.

“Ah, wench, where have you been?” Jaime Lannister motioned her over to another, much larger, log that he had pulled opposite him.  “It’s rude to keep guests waiting.”

“I told you quite plainly, Kingslayer, that I had no desire to speak with you. You would be wise to leave me alone.”

“Why, so that you can go back to talking to _no one_ in this miserable excuse for a war camp?” the man snorted.  He turned away from where she still stood rooted to the spot, poking his fire with a branch.

“What I choose to do is of no concern of yours,” Brienne snapped.  She squared her shoulders back to gain the courage to stride past him to her tent.

Jaime Lannister laughed at her. “You are quite an interesting creature, wench.  You are dressed as a man, carrying a very nice sword at your hip.  Clearly you do not make up for it with your social graces, as more people seem to avoid you than they do me.”

“Did you not think that was because it seems people _cannot_ avoid you?” Brienne had no idea how she was able to throw retorts so quickly, but she hurried to duck into her tent before she could ruin it by stumbling over the log or allowing him time to reply.

“You are just making me more curious, wench!”

The Kingslayer did not leave until midday, choosing to call out to passing knights loudly and speak rudely with his guards, who seemed to find him much more amusing than she did. Though she heard him depart, leaving with a last comment about her skills as a hostess, Brienne did not brave the world outside of her tent for the rest of the day.  She slept fitfully, her pleasant dreams of King Renly haunted by the emerald gaze of a murderer, a betrayer, a monster.

After a few hours, Brienne gave up on trying to rest.  She rose to dress, strapping her sword belt around her square hips, thinking about trying to head out further from camp to find the largest tree in this endless forest. It was difficult to pick her way through the woods when the world was washed in a pale grey from the sun just rising through stormy clouds, but she did so nonetheless.  Unfortunately, her daily practice only left her feeling even more frustrated.  She was tired of hacking at trees as if she were trying to make firewood.  She wanted to move, slide through parries of an opponent, feel the weight of steel pressing towards her.  She wanted a body and a mind that she could not predict, whose moves would be not figments of her imagination.  Her thoughts pushed her to set her feet and force herself to try to think of a faceless opponent, one that she had to duck and block from, thinking of openings that would allow her to thrust and slice.

“So this is where you go so early,” a voice suddenly pervaded her reverie and for a moment ,she thought it was simply her mind placing a face on the knight that she had envisioned. Though when she turned, she found Jaime Lannister leaning languidly against another tree, arms folded and ankles crossed as he seemed to reappraise her.  She was surprised to note that he had taken his roost far enough away from her not to be caught in the swing of her blade and that he had spoken softly so as not to jar her too forcefully from her practice. _Perhaps I am the only person whom he does not know how to play_. _But how long will that last?_

Hoping that her continued silence would finally force him to retreat out of boredom, Brienne casually slid her blade back in its sheath, chin tipped up and pointedly not acknowledging him. She started back towards the camp so that she could be lost in a crowd and he may be deterred from openly harassing a free woman, even though he was supposed to be a prisoner.

However, it appeared that Jaime was going to take the opportunity of the walk to continue hurling practice shots at her walls, testing their seams for a weakness.  “You speak as if you have been educated in the graces of a lady, though every courtesy you try to make as such is uncoordinated. You do much better when you try to act like a knight, so clearly, you have at least been around enough to mimic their attitudes.  Perhaps where you learned to speak like a knight was the same place you learned to spar like one.” Since Brienne was stomping in front of him, she allowed a satisfied smile to flit across her face before she wiped it off.  She should not be proud that there was a hint of shock and admiration in the _Kingslayer’s_ deep voice. As he continued, however, his words ensured that any feelings other than anger would not well up again. “I know no master at arms that train squires to beat poor, defenseless trees, though.  Tell me, what would happen if you tried to fight something that _moves_?”

Once more, Brienne lost her senses as the insipid lull of his tone wiggled under her tunic and set her skin alight with frustration. If she turned around, she may lose her resolve under the burning heat of emeralds, so she decided to try to toss back a snarl over her shoulder.  “If you keep following me, you will find out exactly what happens when I set my blade towards moving targets.” 

“Ho! You are a brave one, wench, to be threatening a knight and a member of the Kingsguard.”

“If you think to hide behind titles, then perhaps I should be more worried about showing my back to the Kingslayer.” What was wrong with her? She was going to wake up tonight to his strong hands strangling her in her tent.  He was going to charm one of the servants in the camp and poisoning her dinner.  He would tell King Renly that some silly maiden was harassing him and she would be sent back home.  She should apologize, but why did he insist on pestering her? Why was he raised to knighthood at such a young age and given the honor of protecting the king while she was hardly allowed to be in the presence of her own lord? The twisted epitome of everything that she had ever desired to be was following her around, mocking her.  What had she done to deserve this?

“Gods, you are a stubborn beast,” Jaime muttered behind her, stopping.  Brienne knew she should have just kept walking, taking the chance to be rid of him, but she turned around and halted as well.  “If throwing Aerys in my face has not broken me in the years since it happened, well before you could walk probably, then what makes you think hearing the same japes from your cracked lips would finally break me?” Without waiting for a reply or offering her another withering glance, he quickly stalked away from the direction of her tent back to where King Renly and his bannermen were camped, followed by the shadows of his guards.

Before she could secure her thoughts, Brienne considered the exhausting names that she had endured, but had been far from original. Yet while for her, the insults were what was bothersome, however close to the truth about her appearance they may be, for Jaime Lannister, it was the act behind that particular label that defined him.  She could never find compassion for a man that would defy his duty, his honor, and his kingdom, but she wondered what could possess him to commit the greatest act of betrayal if he was so concerned about how that would tarnish his name.

 

A few days passed calmly for Brienne. She continued on with her daily routine and willed herself not to jump at the softest chuckle or purring male voice. She chided herself for constantly searching the throng around her, expecting to see green eyes amidst a golden sunrise looming on the horizon, laughing at her.  But Jaime did not come back.  It was a small victory to be added amongst the others, she thought. She could place boring the Kingslayer to disinterest amongst besting an elderly suitor with her sword and disgusting another enough to force him to flee.  The squires and sons of Evenfall’s servants could be counted to her battle tally, but if she was to ever consider herself worthy of King Renly’s forces, she needed to test her skills against real knights.  And the only form of such to appear interested was the Kingslayer. Admittedly, part of her was curious about the legend of Jaime Lannister and she was beginning to wonder if the tales of his prowess with a blade were remotely true.

The Baratheon camp disbanded, which took days due to all of the lavish tents and furniture that Brienne assumed Queen Margery demanded to bring along.  As Brienne finished packing her horse with the few belongings she possessed, she spotted His Grace pacing through the camp.  Just as it had done when she first danced with him on Tarth, Brienne’s heart skittered to a halt, shoving all the air out of her lungs.  She stood tensely next to her mount, fingers hovering over the straps she had been buckling, partly praying that he would catch her eye and partly hoping she could hide behind her horse.  He had been benevolent to her when his party had visited her home and when she had been in his arms, trying desperately to keep away from his delicate feet while dancing, Brienne had felt like a true lady. But that memory had been tainted when King Renly had chosen a beautiful, graceful maiden as his bride. Briene had not hoped he would think of her, but it still broke her heart slightly to know that the smile that had filled her fantasies would forever be for his radiant wife.

As King Renly and his group of bannermen passed by her spot, she caught a flash of gold at His Grace’s side.  She scowled slightly as Jaime Lannister came into view, his handsome face practically overpowering the elegant beauty of the king. His smile was wider, displaying straight and dazzling white teeth, but while the king’s grin twinkled innocently in his clear eyes, the Kingslayer’s only held a glint of mischievous amusement. Their presence sent an odd mix of feelings through Brienne as she fought against the desire to melt into Renly’s gaze and swipe the smug expression clean off the Kingslayer’s face. It was probably for the best that the group passed by without noticing her, for she was too busy fighting an internal battle to have been able to remember what little social graces she had.

King Renly’s forces only moved a few miles before another temporary camp was set up against the side of a large hilltop. Brienne heard rumors that they were slowly making their way to Bitterbridge, but for what reason, no one could fathom.  There were fewer trees in this new area and she had to scout out where to place her tent so that she would not have far to hike in the morning for her practices. Brienne settled in for another long week of waiting.  Or so she hoped, given the alternative.

That evening as she was sitting alone by her fire, idly sharpening her sword, she found a plate of fish and potatoes shoved under her face.  She shot her head up without taking a moment to consider who might be trying to offer her anything and found Jaime Lannister looking down at her as if he was handing her a crown. He held another plate in his other hand and a skin of liquid was tucked under each arm.  When Brienne did not immediately take the food that he extended, thinking about her earlier concerns of poisoning, he shook the platter to prompt her to take it before dinner ended up dumped in her lap. He looked slightly triumphant at her surrender and used his now free hand to drag a log over to sit on the other side of her fire, assuming she would also allow him to stay.

There were two dark figures that lingered just at the edges of the dancing light cast from the flames, facing the direction of her camp, but they appeared to be immersed in their own suppers. Brienne was suddenly aware of how easy it could be for Jaime Lannister to dash towards the hill and disappear in the rocky terrain.  It would have been a mistake that a desperate and rash prisoner would make and she realized with shock that he was neither of those things.  Instead, he sat across from her, swirling large chunks of potato into the gravy on his plate before he shoved the entire piece into his mouth.

“You do not seem to be improving your stances fighting bushes,” he called across the fire, not bothering to try to swallow his bite.  Brienne refused to look him in the eye, deciding to eat a small flake of fish rather than begin a verbal battle she could not win.  Of course, he took her silence to be encouragement to continue.  “When I am returned to my family, I will undoubtedly be needed back on the battlefield and I admit I feel a tad out of practice myself.” That caused Brienne to glare at him, though the heat of her stare seemed to do little but force an amused chuckle to escape past his throat and potatoes. “Oh, don’t worry your ugly head, I doubt I will ever come up against Renly’s forces, unless I become lost in battle and stumble upon them watching from a safe distance.”

“ _King_ Renly has an alliance with Robb Stark and they will join in combat to bring down the Lannister-“

“I get the impression, slight though it may be, that you do not care for me much,” he interrupted.  Brienne stopped with a snap of her jaws, turning away from him to stare into the darkness, a blush rising up her cheeks. “Save your breath, and my ears, and I will just remember for you every insult I have ever heard about why I am nothing more than a single act-“

She had started to argue with the fact that his _single act_ had set in motion the demise of Westeros, but she paused when he angrily threw up his hand. She was surprised to find a burning anger sparking in his green gaze and as she watched him clench his jaw and curl the fingers of his other hand into a tight fist, she found herself nervous and taut.  The thought that she had sparked the Kingslayer’s ire made her itch to grab her sword. She kept her hands around her plate, though, waiting while he tried to control the rage that had taken over his body. “ _Enough_.  I hardly enjoy your company, either.  You remind me of a man that was renowned for his honor, though I personally found him to be insufferable and an immense fool.  As it is, I am alive and his greatest _duty_ now is feeding the crows.”

“Why are you here, then, if we agree of our mutual distaste?” Brienne huffed.

“Because,” Jaime Lannister smiled, his easy charm falling back over the anger that hazed the edges of his countenance. “We have more in common than that.” She crossed her arms, trying not to let him past her walls, but she still arched an eyebrow, allowing him to say more.  “We have no love between us and both are desperate for a sparring partner so, why not take out our aggression on one another?”

Brienne frowned while his smile only widened. He looked victorious once more, proud of his clever idea.  The thought of having someone to train with was tempting and fighting the Kingslayer could not appear to be treasonous if she was beating him tirelessly every day. A small part of her mind also reminded her that if the tales of Jaime Lannister were true, then she could gain much more from simply watching him than she could if she spent an entire day training in the yards with the king’s young knights.  _Still._

“Though you have more liberties than any prisoner of war that I have ever heard of, it would not be appropriate to allow the Kingslayer to fight.”

“Ah, but I am a special case, am I not? And I am a _political_ hostage, wench. My mental health is just as important as my physical well-being.”

“But-“

“I thought you would be this stubborn,” Jaime sighed. “If you must know, Renly has agreed to allow me to spar with one partner, using swords so dull I could slice bread better with my cock.”

Brienne tried not to turn a shade even brighter than the flames, but she had to look away again at his vulgar language. She was aghast that Jaime Lannister had discussed anything with His Grace, though it sounded as if he had not mentioned her specifically.  If the king gave his approval for the Kingslayer to practice, then she could find no reason not to be the single partner that he was permitted.

“You-you are asking me to spar with you?”

“Yes, wench.”

“My name is Brienne.”

“Pardon?” Jaime quirked a golden eyebrow, finding great humor in making her uncomfortable when he was the one asking for a favor.

“My name is not _wench_ , Kingslayer.  My name is Brienne.”

“Just Brienne?”

This was what he wanted.  She would give him her name, her history, and his desired conquest. “Brienne of Tarth…Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

The recognition was so easy to read as it flew across his face that Brienne almost wanted to laugh.  “Seven hells, you are the _Maid_?” That realization was quickly accepted and she watched his mind sort through the other implications of her title, which he seemed to struggle to grasp. “You are _highborn_?”

Before he could wrap his mind about how the rest of her past could have caused the heir to Evenfall to dress as a man, carry a sword, and swear allegiance to a king in the middle of war, Brienne stood, hoping he would take the hint and leave.  Thankfully, he rose as well.  “I hope you have a good night’s rest, wench, so that you will be strong in the morning. See you here at sunrise.”

Brienne was relieved that he had not pressed her identity further, but she knew that it was only a matter of time before he brought it up again, most likely when he thought she was at a weak point. For now, she would follow his advice and make sure that she was waiting for him in the morning, eager to begin training once more and hoping to prove her worth against the Kingslayer.


	3. The Truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank you all enough for all of the love and support I have received for this story! I love this fandom so much and I hope to be worthy of you all!
> 
> Of course, I must thank the talented, kind, committed, and lovely Coraleeveritas. No matter how many snippets I have sent her or how many times she has had to read and reread things, she has been nothing but my constant motivator and I owe her everything and then some. Her stamp of approval is my life force. Thank you!
> 
> Thank you to Sandwichesyumyum as well for reading all of this and being so positive towards all the work Coralee and I put into it. I constantly go back and read your comments on these chapters!
> 
> Thanks to Lady_in_Red and her mad computer skills, I have also included a banner made by Ro Nordmann!!! I still cannot wrap my head around the fact that Ro took the time to make this or how absolutely beautiful it is. The colors, Brienne in her blue armor with Oathkeeper, and the look on Jaime's face is just perfection. This is the image I now have in my head for an upcoming chapter and it's so amazing how much this fits in! Thank you!!!! You have no idea how much this means to me!

Jaime had not wanted to be so intrigued by the wench, but her continual refusal to offer him any sort of information about herself piqued his curiosity.  He thought that she had learned the sword from her father perhaps, some hedge knight who had hoped his ugly daughter would get herself killed before she could come of an age to marry, or by a master at arms who had taken pity on an orphan child, abandoned as the abomination that she was.  He also tried to continue to entertain the idea that she was somehow a bastard Clegane.  The notion that she was an heir, despite being of a lesser house, and had shirked her responsibilities as a lady to run off to play at being a knight, was still something he was trying to come to terms with.  

He had watched her practice and, though she was too rigid and predictable in certain stances, she appeared to have been trained well.  Jaime had seen plenty of knights who had squired under some of the most notable men in Westeros and still not become more than decent.  There was something that was born in a man, something that called to the dance of steel.  It could be honed and tamed, but it was that song of the heart that made a true, worthy knight.  He had known since he was a boy that he possessed such a drive.  If only his life had been simpler so that he could still hear the tune of the sword above the din of a thousand other melodies that came from being a Lannister.  Despite the Maid of Tarth being a woman, and with a body that looked even too cumbersome for a man, he grudgingly recognized that she moved skillfully to the song as well.

He was going mad sleeping in his plush bed, which was small but still too comfortable to belong in a war camp.  In his dreams he was haunted by Cersei, demanding his return and offering the gold of Casterly to try to free him.  He imagined Tyrion being bumped and jostled by the lords and ladies at court until he opened his mouth and roared, startling everyone into clearing a path for him to the Iron Throne, only to find Joffrey lounging on it, blood running down his legs and arms as the dull blades of his seat grew sharp once more.  His nights forced him to pace the quiet, motionless, restless, insulting Baratheon camp in a rage.  He would almost rather still be a prisoner of Robb Stark.  At least he would be reminded that he was an enemy, that this was a war, and of what was at stake.  Instead, he thought about the battles that he was missing, his sister who needed his help in defeating their opposing forces, and the glory that was being had as he was tortured with inaction and treated like a bloody guest by a coward who was too preoccupied with pleasing his pretty consort than attempting to fight.

His desire to hit something, anything, had finally quelled his pride temporarily so that he could request the use of blunted swords.  Renly had not seen any harm in allowing the Kingslayer a weapon and a squire to use it on.  It slightly annoyed Jaime, but he was amused when Randyll Tarly attempted to protest, trying vainly to explain what was obviously dangerous in the minds of the rest of Renly’s more experienced bannermen.

“Your Grace, a prisoner should not be granted privileges such as wielding weapons and gathering strength to fight, which he will be doing _against_ us, given the chance,” Tarly snarled through gritted teeth.

“Nonsense,” Renly had waved his hand like a maiden would to brush away a strand of hair.  He had not even looked at them, but had poured over a map as Loras excitedly whispered in his ear.  “I will not have it known that I abuse my hostages, lest our own people imprisoned by the Lannisters are treated the same way. Besides, if I deny Jaime, he will just sneak off and use sticks, so I may as well pretend like it was my idea and have him be in plain sight of the guards.  And anyway, Lord Tarly, do you really think that my camp is so insecure that the Kingslayer could possibly escape with a blunted sword?”

There was not much anyone could say to that, so Jaime found himself strolling up to the wench’s tent, carrying their practice weapons, and feeling rather smug that it appeared she had been waiting for a while.  There was something about the way she stood, keeping her muscles strained as if she was fighting the urge to swing at him or run.  The tilt of her hard chin forced him to have to look up at her slightly, something he knew she did, unconsciously or not, so that he was reacting to her while she could look down upon him with disdain.  

Most people scorned the Kingslayer openly or were too fearful of him even to speak ill away from his presence.  This one only lashed out when he provoked her, an instinctual response more than it was intentional.  In the dance of words, when he swung, she parried, trying to keep him at a distance, not offering any room for him to try to make a better attack or search for a weakness.  This waltz she did not perform well, but he recognized the innate motions in her that developed in someone who was constantly on the defensive.  It was strange that this was the same woman that moved so much better with a sword in her hand, but then, he doubted she gave her opponents time to form enough breath to toss insults at her as well as blows.   _That will change after today_.

“Good morning, wench!” he called to her as he approached, hearing the faint jostle of armor behind him as his guards walked closer to him than usual.  Apparently not everyone was as unconcerned with his use of swords as their king was.

The Maid of Tarth frowned at him, eyeing the blunted blades that dangled casually with the sway of his arms.  She had most likely suspected that he had been lying to her.   _Someone as unattractive as her should not look down upon anybody, including the man that put his sword into the king he swore to protect_.  Jaime had to laugh at the insanity of his own thoughts.  She could judge him all she wanted.  He was used to it by now, but it would be all the more sweet when he knocked her on her flat rump.

She nodded her head in what was clearly an attempt at indifference and held her hand out for a sword.  He raised his arms, keeping the hilts out of her reach, smiling handsomely at her, hoping that she took his attention as flirtatious.  As usual though, his charms just made her scowl and she dropped her hand and turned away, plainly not wanting to play his game.  

“I thought we should set some rules for our first bout,” he started.  She snorted and started walking towards the outskirts of the camp.  He followed, easily keeping up with her long strides while his guards were forced to fall back.  “In case you get desperate and start flailing, try to stay away from my face.  I’ve found it to be an advantage at times.  In return, I will not break any bones unless you force me to.  Wench, are you even listening to me?”

They had quickly reached a stand of trees that was far enough away from the hillside so that neither would find their back up against it.  Brienne chose a spot in the middle where there was a small clearing and snatched one of the blades from his hand.  For such a heavy figure, she was surprisingly fast and her blank glare gave away little of her next move.  She tapped his own blade before she took two large steps away from him, drawing her sword up to her chest and giving him no time to parry.

“My name is Brienne.”

They began circling one another, an anger burning inside Jaime as she had already managed to penetrate his space.  He hefted his blade, feeling the weight draw down his right hand, and he let it twist his wrist so that he could test the balance of a swing.  The soft whine of steel whistling through the frigid air sent a shiver of excitement down Jaime’s spine.  He could not stop the grin that peeled his lips open and, though he was distracted with watching the light steps of the wench, he did note that for the first time, she began to blush at his gaze.

Each occasion that he tried to step towards her, closing the gap so that their swords could meet, she would step back and slide out of the space that he had prepared for them to fight in.  She was sure with her moves and she was aware every time Jaime shifted his blade or his body, reacting with her own defense. Eventually, he grew tired of her game of chase and took one heavy swing over his head to come down on her weak left shoulder.  Brienne easily swept her sword across her chest and met his blow, casting it off as she would brush away a spider’s web.  Jaime wasted no time for recovery, using the motion of his arm to stab at her hip, which she threw aside as well.  He tried to lunge with his body, hoping the contact with the shy maid would unsettle her, but she simply danced back while batting away his strikes.

Brienne had yet to try to make an attempt at an attack, which left her still bouncing on the balls of her feet, her energy high and her body fueled by adrenaline. Jaime, however, was quickly becoming tired.  He had lost some of his strength during the months of captivity while she had spent every day maintaining her muscles and her mind.  He had expected to feel out of sorts, but the notion that she was playing with him, letting him tire himself out, was enough to cause him to see red for a few moments.  He _would_ kill her, he decided.  He would prove just how powerful he was even with a dulled blade and then he would be feared by Renly and the rest of his men.  It would be worth being locked in a cell again, feeling terrified eyes on him, being treated like the danger that he was.

His anger must have shown in his eyes because just as he was feeling his blood curdle in his ears, Brienne edged towards his left side to try and land a blow to his ribs.  He blocked her with his own sword.  Barely.  A surging wave of pride and rage caused him to bring up his fist and punch her squarely between her meager breasts.  She grunted, his blow forcing the wind from her lungs and her body to protest in pain, but if the first landed strike surprised or incensed her, he could not tell.  She took the hit and used her sword to slap his collarbone.  Jaime tried to block her once again, but she slipped her arm to the inside of his right elbow and tossed the limb away so that she had access to his right shoulder.

Now she was close enough that Jaime could throw his body into her.  She was still holding back his right arm, but he managed to move his left hand between them to smack her temple with the hard base of his palm.  For a moment, she was disoriented and leaned on him to keep either of them from having room to strike while her bright blue eyes blinked at him.  Jaime tried to ignore the sharpness of her hip or the contrast of the soft give of her thighs as she attempted to move behind him.  He was distracted for a moment with the idea that he was battling a woman, whose purpose was for bedding rather than anything more dangerous.

He was broken from his reverie by Brienne burying her fist into his side as she whirled around him.  They both pushed away from one another, panting and drinking in huge gulps of air, wincing slightly from bruises that were already forming underneath linen and leather.  Jaime had not felt this alive in months, nor this furious.  This was supposed to have been a quick fight, but it appeared that in his unpracticed state, they were almost evenly matched.  He decided that he may as well force her to battle words as well as steel, an advantage that would allow him to finish her quickly, perhaps by breaking her windpipe with his useless steel.

“You try too hard, wench,” he told her between blocking a strike to his ribs and trying to pull a quick thrust at her back.  He laughed, watching her large lips suck into her mouth as she pursed them together in an attempt to keep back a retort.  It forced her to breathe heavily through flared nostrils that reminded him of his horse, but it also made her small breasts heave, drawing his attention to them momentarily.  “How many hours did you spend sparring, hiding your face from the boys of Tarth, hm? Or did their jeers put a blade in your hand, so that you could beat them all back for their remarks?”

Nothing so far had sent a pause to their fighting, but he knew he would hit his mark eventually, be it her tender heart or her exposed neck. There was a light tinge of guilt related to hurting the only person who had paid him any attention in the many months of loneliness, but he could not forget she could also be his potential escape plan. And she was so infuriatingly stubborn and noble, he knew he would enjoy breaking the wench, despite the few moments of uneasy camaraderie they had shared.

“Were you hoping that some shining knight would come to Tarth and beat you on the field, then swing you over his shoulders and take you as his wife?” The thought made Jaime laugh.  “There are few men in Westeros that could lift you, wench, and fewer still that would want to.  Have there been _any_ to try?”

The remark awarded him with a flicker of hurt and frustration, but it also forced a surge of power through Brienne so, while she feigned a slide to his right, she ended up slicing under his chest, below where his arm met his shoulder.  Jaime hissed, taking a step back just as she tried to sneak in a punch to his stomach.  He chuckled, though it quickly turned into a groan of pain.  Perhaps aggravating her with his words would not be to his advantage.  Still, he was beginning to wonder just how she had ended up realizing her ingrained talent with a blade.

“You know, you could just silence me by telling me how the Maid of Tarth came to be… unless you enjoy my voice so much that you don’t want me to stop talking.”

“I doubt there is anything that could silence you,” Brienne finally retorted.  Her eyes darted quickly to the side that she was heading towards, though she tried to pretend to move forward instead.  Jaime caught the tell and stepped right into the space where she was shifting to.  She almost ran straight into his sword, but caught herself and swiveled away at the last moment.  Jaime had anticipated her speed by now so, he followed her turn, throwing his weight into her and sending her running backwards until her back hit a tree. His blade snapped off the trunk where her shoulder had been a heartbeat before, spraying flakes of bark across both of them.  She had easily dodged the weapon, but she was still trapped between him and the tree.

“Yield,” Jaime snapped at her, fighting his own breathing in an effort to sound confident.

“No.” With superior strength, Brienne shoved him away from her, kicking out her leg to hook it behind his knee, easily wrenching his foot from under him. Following him to the ground, she set her knee into his ribs and placed her blade at the tip of his neck.  Jaime’s sword hand was held at the wrist by her other one and his left was wedged between her boot and his side.  He was stuck and he was tired.  “Yield.”

“Fine, wench, I yield!” With that, she quickly scrambled off of him, though he stayed to take a moment to try and catch his breath, resting on the cold dirt.

“My name is Brienne.”

“Seven hells, I know!” Jaime huffed out a laugh.

Suddenly, there was a large, callused hand waving in his face.  He glanced up to see that Brienne was inspecting his feet rather than watching to see if he would take her hand.  He frowned.  “Think you beat the old lion enough so that he can’t get up?”

Brienne quickly snatched her hand back to her side.  He thought his bite would quiet her, but she replied softly, “The other knights help each other up when they are training.”

 _Stupid little girl_ , Jaime thought, before he reminded himself that this same child had just knocked him to the ground.  He could not remember the last time he had been felled in sparring.  Without realizing what he was saying, he grimaced, “Well, then, help me up.”  

The walk back to Brienne’s tent was amicably silent, mostly because they were both too tired to hold onto the bloodlust.  It had been too long since Jaime had held a sword and it appeared to have been even longer since Brienne had sparred with a partner.  Still, she was good and she would only improve if they continued to train, which meant that Jaime would have to consider other options as a means of escape.  Until his strength was restored, he could hardly get close enough to kill her.

For now, he decided he would enjoy pestering the wench.  She had won their first bout, but he had been weak and misjudged her abilities.  Next time, or maybe the time after, he should have recovered enough to use her hesitancy at the beginning of their session, or the brutality of her strikes when she attacked, against her. At the moment, though, all he could clearly focus on was the screaming aches of his muscles pleading for a hot bath and the dull throb in his side where the tenacious cow had aimed most of her blows.  Though he could hear the murmured japes and laughing of his guards, who had witnessed his defeat, he took satisfaction in the fact that Brienne was favoring one leg and the men behind them had been careful not to raise their voices loud enough for the Kingslayer to discern precisely what they were saying.

 

The next few days passed in the same manner as the first. Their sparring became longer, but Brienne inevitably triumphed. Jaime still felt drained afterwards, however he was not particularly distressed by her victories since he knew they would not be so numerous in a week’s time. She appeared to have sensed his improvement as well since she never exulted over her winnings. The prize she claimed from the morning was his silence during breakfast. Though he continued to banter with her during their bouts, finding that he could occasionally distract her with mentions of her father and other men, he gave her some peace when they were not in their secret clearing.

On the fifth day, after an entire morning spent battling one another, Jaime finally managed to knock the wind from Brienne’s lungs with the edge of his hilt and used the pause in her attack to swipe her blade from her hands.  She immediately yielded, though it was more of a wheeze, and stepped out of reach, which was unfortunate since Jaime’s blood was running so hot that he had been contemplating breaking her neck with his bare hands.  When his vision cleared and his hearing registered the quiet calls of birds in the trees and Brienne’s labored breathing, he dropped his own sword and moved to rap her on the back to help her take in deep gulps of air.

As they sat on opposite ends of her fire afterwards, digging into plates of eggs, sausage, and potato bread, Brienne finally surrendered her prize of silence. “I was trained by Tarth’s master of arms, Ser Goodwin,” she muttered, choosing to look at her plate rather than her only companion. “My father expected me to take over Tarth, marry, and have children, but he knew it would not make me happy. So, he allowed me to train with Ser Goodwin.  But he-he was not pleased when I chose to join Renly’s camp.”

Jaime gave her an unsympathetic snort.  “The only heir to his seat? What father would support such a ridiculous notion, his daughter playing at being a knight?”

“His _ugly_ daughter that no man wanted to marry.  What does it matter what I do with my life if I find no husband and cannot birth the next heir? My father has taken women after the death of my mother, perhaps one of them will give him a son or a beautiful daughter.”

“Yes, any lord would choose a bastard child over their highborn one,” Jaime rolled his eyes.  The naivety of the girl was starting to grate on the calm that had suffused him after their bout.

“Wouldn’t you, given the choice?”

Jaime thought about his own bastards, one of whom now sat the Iron Throne, and mused over the idea of Cersei ever birthing Robert Baratheon’s children, the rightful successors.  Given the young man Joffrey had become, he did not think he would have minded someone else inheriting the crown. Though with the thought now in his mind,  he was far more disturbed about the idea of Cersei’s womb quickening with her late husband’s seed.  So, he considered what his own father would do.  If Jaime were to die in battle, forcing Tywin to give up any belief that he would inherit Casterly, would his father rather give it to Tyrion or some bastard? Though the idea that Tywin would bed any woman besides his wife was unsettling and implausible, Jaime could not deny the obvious answer to such a situation.

“The decisions of lords and fathers is a rather dull and predictable topic,” he finally said, avoiding her question.  “Why would a lady, unattractive though you may be, ever find herself picking up a sword?”

“I-I used to read stories about knights,” she sighed.  “They were always honorable and selfless.  One day, Ser Goodwin caught me watching him train some of the men and he let me try out a dagger to see how well I would do.”

“And did he encourage your dreams of being a knight?”

“He encouraged me to hone my skills and to respect the wishes of my father.”

Jaime sat back on his log, stretching his feet towards the fire and crossing his ankles.  “You may think that your father and this Ser Goodwin had your best interests in mind, but they should have opened your eyes to the reality.” He gestured, encompassing the expansive camp which was now just rising after a long night of drinking and gambling.  “Have you found any of your chivalrous knights here, wench?”

“No, but-“

“There are no excuses.  The truth is no one has recognized your value as a fighter because you are a hideous beast and they have utterly ignored your talent.  But instead of returning home like a good girl, you persist.  And for what, so that you may spar with the Kingslayer, the very antithesis of those laughable knights inside your head? The world is not a song, child, and there are no good people.”

“The kingdom has become so desolate because of the Lannisters,” she suddenly hissed, glaring at him, daring him to try to destroy her dreams.  “Your family has laid waste to Westeros-“

“Oh, you truly are as dim as you are ugly if you think we are the cause of all strife.  Where are your gallant knights to ride in and save the people from the monstrous lions? My family has thrived because there is no one to stop them.  Honorable men follow their duty to the grave. Take Arthur Dayne, killed by the great Ned Stark, who was a traitor to the crown, mind you, or the glorious Barristan Selmy who has been cast out of the Kingsguard by the boy he has sworn to protect, his third king, you know, the same number as me.  And where _is_ the noble Ned Stark, who put the dead Robert Baratheon on the throne? Ah, yes, decorating the walls of the Red Keep with the rest of his men.  And you dare blame a single house for the state of this land?” 

At some point, Jaime had stood up to loom over her across the fire, though he could not remember doing so. He had not realized that the heat on his face came from the flames and not the internal rage that had begun to consume him.  How was it that he had faced hundreds of men and women, letting them fear and mock him for the man that he had become, and had never let them see his ire? But a few words from this woman made him want to kill more than when he was holding his blunted sword.

For her part, Brienne remained sitting, fists clenched tightly in her lap and face as bright as the fire between them.  “What would you know about honor?”

“More than you, fool,” he spat.  “You should have stayed on your island, with your stories, and lived a long life so that you could die a maiden.  Now, you will be killed by a blade very soon, and you should be praying that it happens before you are raped.” With that, Jaime spun on his heels and walked away from her.

He considered staying away the next morning, but the only way to diffuse some of his irritation would be to let it burn up in the heat of sparring. He would not admit it to the wench, but part of his exasperation had been at how much she had sounded like himself when he was younger. Mentioning Ser Arthur had been a mistake, for his name had awoken the giddy feelings Jaime had experienced the day that he had been knighted by the Morningstar. But the boy who had dreamed of battle and saving the innocent from evil forces had been quelled by the cruel truths of the world.  

He had not been entirely honest with Brienne when he had told her there were no good people.  There were some that strived to be good and perhaps there were some that came close, but they did not last long.  The young man that Jaime Lannister had been would not have survived the game of thrones.  So, he had adapted and caged in the piece of himself that mourned for the things he had done to protect himself and those he loved.  He took comfort in the knowledge that his actions were not worse than what the king he swore to protect had done under his watch and they were not nearly as horrifying as what Aerys _would_ have done.  If the wench did not learn to release some of her innocent, stubborn moral rules, then she was in danger of dying just as easily as his own wide-eyed youth had.

 

Brienne was pacing her campsite when Jaime finally arrived, her sword tapping against her hard thigh in a display of her annoyance and impatience. She stopped completely when she spotted him and frowned when he allowed himself to offer her a cold smile.  As usual, she stalked towards their clearing without a word to him and he had to jog to close the distance before her long strides took her too far away.

Jaime had only begun to ready himself after they had finally stopped, but Brienne wasted no time in lunging at him.  She had not lost her courtesies enough to attempt to strike when he was unbalanced, so she simply aimed at keeping him from raising his blade.  She was relentless, foolishly spending all of her energy at forcing him to remain on the defense, wincing every time her painful blows managed to land.  Her face was as red as his Lannister tunic and she was breathing like a warhorse, blowing air into her cheeks to try to cool down her skin.  

Jaime was shocked and thrilled to see that she had other fighting styles besides her frustratingly calculated natural dance.  He was equally pleased to know that he was the cause for the fury that had sparked and was kindled by her passion, searing through her until there was nothing left.  She had forgotten all pretenses as they pressed together, swords barely fitting in the tight space between their heated bodies.  They continued as the last embers of indignation smoldered in her blazing eyes, right up until Brienne realized the inappropriate proximity.  She looked startled for a heartbeat before Jaime snatched his empty hand out to pull her flush against him.

“Where do you think you are running to, wench?” he growled as she struggled against him.  Her warm breath was hitting his neck and washing down his throat to pool in his collarbone, cooling the sweat on his skin.  She was completely spent from her prior bursts of energy and could not find the energy needed to escape the strength of his grip.  It was becoming rather uncomfortable, though, as his sword was held to the side and hers was pinned between their hips.  Still, as she futilely slid her body across his, he was surprised by the hard planes of muscle which melted into the softness that was more expected of a woman.  Jaime found he enjoyed the contrast of her firm stomach to the give of the underside of her upper arm.  Though, he wished that the writhing figure in his embrace was a supple and eager Cersei, rather than having to turn his face away to avoid the flecks of sweat the wench was shaking off.

Just as she began to relax in his hold, thinking to slip away rather than break through, Jaime gathered all of his strength and threw her to the ground, sending her feet flying.  He expected her to roll, as she did, the impact clearly jarring her but not enough.  He planted his boot beside her so that she turned into it and used his other foot to kick away her sword before planting his heel firmly on her chest, blade at her thick throat.

“An experienced knight knows never to let emotion control his hand,” he chuckled.  “Though in battles, one can only make that mistake once.”

“And wouldn’t an experienced _knight_ also look for other weapons on his foe?” Jaime frowned before he felt pressure on the inside of his exposed inner thigh.  He looked down to see her fist and small dagger pressed to slice where his blood would flow faster than his body could recover to clot it up.  He had to laugh.  The wench was full of surprises today.

“But who would have killed the other first?”

“I think we would both be dead,” she replied, offering him the first smile he had seen on her since their meeting.  It did nothing to improve her appearance, he concluded, as it smashed her freckles together in thin wrinkles on her smooth skin and exposed a hint of her jutting teeth, one of which caught her lip as she pulled it back.  The mirth reached her eyes, though, causing them to glisten and catch the pale wintry light that drifted effortlessly through the trees. The morning could have almost been beautiful, the light stretching out to touch all of the darkened corners of their clearing, softly reflecting the moisture still clinging to the leaves.  The sight of the wench lying beneath him, her breath forming foggy clouds, banished the musing back to wherever it had come from, though.

Jaime offered his hand, reluctantly echoing her earlier chivalry, to help pull her up from the cold ground. They walked back to her camp in silence, an unusual calm descending as the guards were also unusually mute.  He wanted to turn around, to catch a telling expression, but knew that such a movement would be too obvious.  He would eventually find out why a shift had just occurred, which it seemed had not only been between the wench and himself but had also inexplicably affected those around them.  For now, he could do nothing but watch as Brienne took up her normal position as far away from him as she could, staring back at him across her small fire while his guards hovered as close as they dared to the Kingslayer, having finally seen some of his skill with a blade.

He sighed, trying to find the humor in his need to push away his only wretched companion, inadvertently drawing his most foolish enemies closer with every breath.  For now, though.  Only for now.  None of them, from the wary wench to the foolish boy playing at being a king, would ever see his next move coming.

 


	4. The Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that time again! Another update! This chapter was a lot of fun to write and it's what I needed to continue to explore Jaime and Brienne before I got too swept up in canon. That being said, this is really my Ode to Coraleeveritas chapter. You may have noticed that she is my beta and I'm obsessed with her. This scene was her idea and it really inspired me. As always, I have to thank her. It's rare to find someone whose strengths are your weaknesses and who creates such trust and openness that you feel at peace and complete. Without her, I would be a mess writing and posting this. I love you, Coralee!
> 
> Sandwichesyumyum has also been a continual support, not only for this story but for life in general. Knowing that she is there for me and a pillar of friendship has kept me grounded at times. And I can't thank her enough for being an amazing person!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this!

Despite the weeks of sparring and breaking her fast with the Kingslayer, Brienne still could not convince herself that the habit was appropriate.  The desire to practice warred with the disgust of having to see Jaime Lannister daily. Temporarily, at least, the hatred left her whenever she managed to force two sweet words from his smooth lips: “I yield”.  When she was the one compelled to say them, though, the abhorrence was turned on herself even as her body soared from the exertion and her mind felt elated in the challenge.

He was truly, she begrudgingly admitted to herself, an excellent fighter, the best that she had ever trained with or watched. He was everything that she had ever heard about him, which sent a chill down her spine since that could only mean the horrifying tales must be as true as the heroic ones. The Kingslayer, after all, did not regret a single act and would stop at nothing to take what he needed. She knew that if she displayed any slight weakness, even one he was unknowingly eliciting from her, he would use it to escape, and most likely kill her.

Their practice sessions had allowed her to notice the hot spark that occasionally glinted within the golden flecks in his emerald gaze, an early warning sign to whenever his inner thoughts turned sinister. Mostly, she saw the lion emerge while they sparred, be it through a forceful slip of his sword that would leave her worried about a likely broken bone or a sudden burst of pressure from his hands around her wrist or throat.  Sometimes she would incite the beast within from their forced conversations, but it was hardly ever from mentions of his infamous past, the warmth in his stare turning to ice as his firm jaw slackened, signs that he had removed himself from their talk.  Brienne always inadvertently stepped on his tail speaking idly about the stories she had read as a child or when she tried to turn his questions or japes at her expense away from her and onto requests for tales of when he first became a knight, before he was the Kingslayer.  She strove to traverse the benign topics of respectable social exchanges, but her attempts only flared the antagonism simmering behind jade.

If this had been the extent of her exposure to Jaime Lannister, then she would have had no qualms at beating him in practice and making him leave her alone afterwards.  But more often, lately, the unrepentant, devilish charm of the Kingslayer slipped from his features and Brienne was faced with a creature she was wholly unprepared to confront.  Jaime Lannister accepted his losses fairly well.  He was impetuous and arrogant, yet he knew when to be patient and reserved, though he rarely was either.  He was surprisingly observant, interested, and willfully annoying. These traits made the man practically unbearable to be around at times, but they were not characteristics she had expected of a knight who murdered his king.  Brienne tried to convince herself that he was playing her as he had countless others, but the argument was becoming weaker as the days progressed.

The army was supposed to make a short trip to another site, crawling slowly towards their destination of Bitterbridge, laden with extravagant tents and overflowing supplies that slowed their progression. In order to break up the monotony and excite the camp, the king had announced that a feast would be held once they stopped for the evening.  As the daughter of a bannerman, Brienne dreaded that she would have to make an appearance, especially since the Kingslayer had been pestering her about meeting His Grace.

The journey to the next campsite took longer than anticipated, which sent servants scrambling to prepare food and set up the tables before the lords and knights began their celebration. Brienne was grateful she had not even considered packing one of her ill fitting dresses and was left only with the option of donning a pair of breeches she had saved from wearing to practice in and a silk blue tunic which had been a present from her father before she left.  She absently rubbed the small stitching of the sun and stars, the sigil of Tarth, hearing the soft wash of waves upon velvety sands, smelling the surf and absorbing the calm of home.  The calming sensation left her as she tried to comb her straw-like hair with her fingers, not bothering to attempt to put it up or braid it as ladies were supposed to do. Since they were in a war camp, she did not hesitate to sling her sword on her hip as her only accessory, finding some comfort in the familiar weight tapping her thigh as she trudged towards the middle of the camp where King Renly’s tent loomed above the others.

Where the four extra pavilions that now flanked His Grace’s tent came from, looking to belong in a Great Hall rather than out in the field, Brienne could not imagine any more than she could place ever seeing the grand tables and chairs that were now inside.  Although she did recognize most of the bannermen and knights that were already busy feasting on platters of boar and troughs of root vegetables in gravy. The king sat at the main table, his hand placed reverentially upon that of his lovely queen. He was turned to his other side, however, where Loras Tyrell sat, the two leaned so close that if Ser Loras had been a lady, Brienne would have feared they might kiss.

She frowned, feeling an odd flutter of jealousy glancing at the pair.  The commander of the Rainbow Guard was worshipped just as highly as his charge, at least around the Baratheon men.  Though she had never seen Ser Loras fight, she had heard that the lithe, beautiful youth could match the Kingslayer in grace.  Brienne knew the call of steel, could feel it thrum in her blood, noticed how it set Jaime’s eyes alight, and she now saw it dance along Ser Loras’s throat as he laughed at something King Renly said. 

The other members of the Rainbow Guard were fanned out behind him, also watching the exchange, eyes flitting between their commander and their king.  Brienne noted them all, noting once more that a seat was empty.  It had been reserved for Ser Barristan Selmy, ever since news had reached them of his dismissal from the Kingsguard. His release from the noble order had been another betrayal by the Lannisters and King Renly had ordered a place in his own guard to be held for the knight.  But, since no word had reached them of Ser Barristan’s whereabouts or his desire to join King Renly, Brienne had begun to imagine herself in that seat, with a colorful cloak placed over her shoulders. It would be the closest to a marriage ceremony that she could ever hope to have, just that moment of looking upon His Grace’s eyes as he wrapped his cloak around her. Except, it would be she that protected _him_ after their vows, rather than his colors shielding her.

Though she tried to hold her gaze on the king, her eyes skidded past him and his lovely lady to the man she was entertaining. Queen Margery was sipping demurely from her wine cup, eyes caressing Jaime Lannister as he talked animatedly, but he never looked at her.  The queen should have been offended by his obvious disrespect, though Brienne doubted that anyone who had met him could have expected his undivided attention or interest, but Her Grace seemed to be stealing the chance to look upon his profile as he scanned the crowd.  When his emerald gems fell on Brienne, she felt the rush of the sea once more, flooding her periphery so that everything blurred except for him.  The bewitching image of the Kingslayer, tightening his jaw in the same determination she saw every morning and starting to narrow his eyes at her, the strange familiarity of the gesture melding with the continued call of home, finally broke Brienne’s trance.  She quickly looked away and kept walking to where small tents and fires had been set up, creating a ring around the pavilions, enclosing a large bonfire which threw light and shadowed figures across the party.

There was an open spot a few paces away, tucked back so that the flames only kissed the edges of the site while the rest stayed hugged in darkness from a stand of trees.  Though there was a group of young knights that she recognized close by, she felt the allure of hiding herself from the rest of the party, though still with a view of the main pavilion.  As soon as she made herself comfortable, a servant came by, handing her a large plate piled with meat, bread, and vegetables, with a lemon cake balanced precariously on top.  She took the meal gratefully, but denied the wine skin as she usually did. 

When her eyes wandered back to the king, though, she regretted not stealing some courage from the fermented fruits as she felt her own fail her.  Jaime had finally turned to the queen, leaning casually in his chunky seat so that he could regard His Grace over her head.  It was unsettling to see the two so close together, probably because one was set to be the ruler of the Iron Throne and the other had already murdered a man who had sat on it.  Brienne did not like the way that Jaime kept capturing her notice as she was trying to study King Renly. She had rarely seen him during the months of the army’s travels and she wanted to steal the time to drink in his dark curls and the long ebony lashes that reflected his sparkling eyes. Each time she was memorizing a new feature, though, she was caught by the movement of Jaime’s broad, gesturing hands. She already knew those hands well, had seen the long fingers with the thick knuckles grasp the hilt of a sword, had watched the sinuous muscles roll under the strings of tight veins running towards his wrist, all wrapped in golden skin.  She had no desire to know more of what was there in the details, though she could not see far enough to make them out.  But had she not been following the motion of Jaime’s arm, she would not have caught him fling it in her direction.  Clearly, he was discussing the king meeting his sparring partner. Her.

As King Renly nodded and shrugged at his wife, he stood, which caused all of the members of the Rainbow Guard to rise as well. The king waved them away, except for Ser Emmon Cuy, who escorted him out of the tent, with Jaime strolling beside them.  Brienne realized that she was on her feet as well, clutching her plate of food as if she could bend the metal.  She panicked, thoughts flying to her unruly hair, how she would tower over the king, how unprepared she would seem next to the armored Ser Emmon.  Then, of course, she had no idea what Jaime Lannister would say about her while she stood dumbstruck in front of His Grace. He could be capable of being truthful; speaking of her skills with a sword, but those truths could continue on to mention the meals they had shared and the sensitive camaraderie which had grown out of desperation and disquiet.  Though the king seemed at ease with Jaime Lannister, she was not sure that he would be just as open with the person who had agreed to spar with the infamous Kingslayer.

Voices floated to her hidden spot, Jaime’s deep, mocking rumble dotted with the higher, gleeful response of the king, both clearly in their cups.  Amidst the whining slide of metal, caused by Ser Emmon stalking behind them, their words remained murmurs as Brienne left all of her senses and etiquette on the plate that she now dropped and dashed into the darkness.  After staying on the fringes of the fires for some time, her eyes were better accustomed to the gloom, so she could easily discern Jaime stopping in his tracks, glaring right at her as the king peered away from the brilliant fires, blindly searching the empty spot.

A look of amusement was causing the king’s ruddy cheeks to twitch as he fought against a grin.  Ser Emmon folded his arms, glaring at Jaime’s back, clearly blaming him for wasting His Grace’s precious time.  Jaime ignored both of them, though, his green gaze piercing the darkness angrily, face set as if he could draw Ser Emmon’s sword and stab out into the night to strike her.

“Dear Gods, Jaime, has the life of a political prisoner really made you as mad as to conjure up sparring partners?” Renly teased.

Jaime grunted, still staring her down while she prayed that her shame would not glow as hot as flames in the night. “Yes, boredom is the most torturous act you could inflict on me, Renly,” he mumbled.  “Perhaps you should grant me a reprieve and let me join the warfare for a bit or take a stroll down to King’s Landing lest I go completely insane.” He finally tore his gaze from Brienne to throw a disarmingly charming grin at the king, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.  Brienne had thought his instinctual flirtations towards her had been unseemly and embarrassing, but they appeared to be the smallest weapons in his arsenal as he leaned into King Renly, ignoring the rumbling of Ser Emmon, who had begun to reach for his sword.

His Grace lifted his hand to stop the knight without looking away from Jaime, his own provocative smile now frozen on his lips. “You take me for a fool, I know.  But you will see just how worthy of the Iron Throne I am, very soon. You should not underestimate me, for your sake and the sake of your… _family_.”

Brienne was shocked, and slightly satisfied, with the threatening tone her king used.  So, he had a plan behind all of this waiting, one that not even the clever Kingslayer had managed to puzzle out.  But she was also surprised by the mention of the other Lannisters. When he said the word “family”, Brienne had the suspicion he was alluding to the letter from Stannis concerning the parentage of Cersei’s children.  Had Jaime said something to His Grace to make him suspect the truth behind an accusation, which held no proof, or did the king simply trust Stannis because they were brothers? _They are also enemies_ , she thought, her eyes drawn almost of their own accord to Jaime’s handsome face to see how he would react to the insinuation.

Brienne had heard of the letter before she had met Jaime and assumed its validity based on the carnal hunger and dominance that she had imagined would consume the kind of man who could murder a king. The conflicting thoughts now running through her head, fighting to associate the talented knight she sparred with to the Kingslayer, set her blood cold just like the first day she had met him and it made her want to silently shrink back to her tent, away from the angry king and the enigma that was Jaime Lannister.

Though the king’s venom had even worried Brienne, safely hidden from his ire, Jaime did not appear disturbed. “My, we are testy tonight, aren’t we?” he chuckled.  “Perhaps you should retire early and take some of that aggression out on Loras. I hear he likes it rough at times.”

Brienne had not a clue what Jaime was referring to, but she noted that in it was its own veiled challenge to His Grace’s hidden accusation.  It angered her that he could launch such insults at King Renly while Ser Emmon just frowned, but the king appeared just as tepid as the Kingslayer had been. He attempted a furious glare but spoiled it with a hearty laugh that some said sounded just like the late King Robert’s.  “If this sparring partner truly does exist, he must have the patience of the Mother to deal with you daily.”

Jaime snorted at that, turning back to her. “Dumb as an aurochs, more like it,” he called out.

King Renly laughed.  “Come, I’m sure I’ll meet him after he has slept off the wine. I don’t want to miss the singers!”

With one more parting glance at Brienne’s hiding spot, Jaime allowed himself to be steered back to the king’s pavilion. When they were far enough away that she could no longer hear the clatter of Ser Emmon’s armor, she disentangled herself from the shrubbery and returned forlornly to her log. She could hardly face King Renly again now that she had made a fool of herself and Jaime.  Her only hope was to meet with him when she could be better mistaken for a man and Jaime was nowhere in sight, which seemed to be a rare opportunity at the moment.  Perhaps after Jaime was returned to King’s Landing she could find her chance to appeal to the king.  At that time, she would not be so distracted by the Kingslayer’s near constant presence and she could focus on her goal.

She was eventually interrupted from her thoughts after she had finished her meal by the echoes of whistles and insults from the knights next to her, the men calling out to Jaime as he strolled past them carrying two flagons.  He ignored them until one made to throw a plate at his head, at which he shot them a look so dark, even the glimpse Brienne saw made her shiver.  He continued on, letting the glare drop so that he could beam at her, eyes glazed from drink.

“So you have emerged from your perch, have you, wench?” he sneered, sitting down in his usual place across from her.

“And it seems you have escaped your guards only to sit next to someone who you know can best you,” she grumbled.

“There are men patrolling the outskirts of the feast, making sure no drunken lords get lost and no lowborn enter. Renly figured I was too drunk myself to get far, so, as long as I am nearby, I am allowed the simple company of my own shadow.”

Brienne frowned at that and her silence washed over the two as they sat staring into the fire.  Jaime, of course, roused himself to speech first, grabbing one of the flagons he had brought and thrusting it across to her. “So, we should toast to _something_ , wench.”

“I don’t drink,” she shook her head, refusing the liquid that she was sure had already started working on Jaime, though he did not appear as drunk as he had led the king to believe. It would not do to let down her guard when she was the only thing stopping the Kingslayer from walking away from the feast, where most of the knights that could stop him were imbibing.

“Tonight you do,” he persisted. “I’m not going anywhere, I swear.”

The retort that tumbled up her throat and tripped on her tongue was one concerning the vows of the Kingslayer, but she peered across the flames to look at a bored Jaime Lannister, swishing the flagon hopefully at her.  Instead, she simply said, “One sip.”

One sip turned out to be half the flagon.  Brienne had refused any wine or ale many times before, having seen the way it could turn decent men into lecherous brutes, vulnerable knaves, or weeping fools. She had also tripped over quite a few and feared that should she let the liquid slip past her lips, she would wake up days later, with no memory of what had happened after. Stubborn though she may be, Jaime’s incessant pleadings to take another drink were enough to agree only to stop the whining. The first couple of tastes were sweet at first, but she did not enjoy the acidic and bitter turn as it coated her throat.  After those tries, though, the wine went down more smoothly and she found herself enjoying the way the heat suffused her chest and stomach as she felt it slide through her body.

Despite Jaime matching her sips with larger gulps of his own, he seemed to be less affected by the drink, though there was a warm glow to his cheeks that had not been there before. It lit his eyes, dancing enticingly in their fire while watching her throat raptly as she actually laughed at something he said.  Even now she could not remember what it had been, some story of his brother getting stuck in the pipes of Casterly Rock and pretending to sound like a ghoul. If she had been sober, it may have been amusing, but it would not have caused her to let out the loud guffaw that so easily escaped her compromised mouth.  She clapped a hand over the traitor, blushing furiously as Jaime’s eyebrows rose and he leaned in towards her, like a cat surveying a toy.

“Gods, wench, and I thought the sounds you make sparring were…memorable,” he husked over the calming crackle of the flames.  Brienne would not take her hand from her face, but she shook her head furiously, turning away from the strange manner in which he was looking at her.  “Fine, fine, I will not trouble you with tales that will make you fall over in laughter, the Seven forbid you _enjoy_ yourself.  But, since I have you so loose, let’s get something fun out of you.”

Typically, she would scowl at him to steer him away from any topics of herself.  There was nothing in her life that the Kingslayer needed to know, since he would likely either use it to kill her or to insult her so thoroughly she would attempt to kill him.  But, and she knew it was the wine that was controlling her, she dared Jaime to try to embarrass her tonight.  So, she took her hand away so that she could take another drink before eyeing him brazenly. She sat back to stretch her long legs towards the fire, just as Jaime lounged, crossing her arms and regarding him over the dazzling sparks that floated in the expanse between them.

“Feeling the bravery of drunkenness, are we?” Jaime laughed.  “No need to worry, I’ll go easy on you considering your current state.”

“I am not so inebriated that you can think to escape or distract me, Kin-“ she choked on the word, finding it too sinister to snarl at him as they sat wrapped in the warmth of their partially hidden spot and the buzzing feeling of the wine.

Jaime gave her that look again, one that she would not even have been able to decipher sober and it startled her.  He chose not to comment on her slip, thankfully, and said, “Let’s start simple, hmm?” The rumble of his hum caused her to shiver suddenly, forcing all of her confidence to leave with the heat.  She drew her legs up to her chest, chin falling to her knees as she waited.  “Why Renly?”

“Why Renly, what?”

“Why, out of all of the kings to choose from, and there are so many, was _Renly_ the one you swore to?” Jaime paused, taking in her huge form, even balled up as it was.  He frowned. “Why even leave your lovely island at all?”

“ _King_ Renly claimed the Stormlands and has been our liege lord since before the war.” She could not help but blush, her thoughts straying to times when she had been nothing more than a foolish young girl, dreaming of her lord.

Her reddening face, flushing too quickly for it to be from the wine, did not go unnoticed by him. “No one knows you are in this camp, though, isn’t that right?” he asked.

“Well, my, uh, my father sent a raven to King Renly letting him know of Tarth’s fealty and of my… desire to join the march.” She had hoped to have heard some reply from His Grace, entreating her to come to him, and though none came, she went anyway, intent to prove herself in front of him rather than through some parchment sent by the Evenstar.

“It seems rather rude not to pay more attention to the daughter of a bannerman.  It would appear he has left you all alone.”

“That is not true,” Brienne hastily answered, the lie quickly rising up her throat to try to defend His Grace’s actions.  She finally glanced at him as the blush drove up her chin.  “His Grace sent one of his men, Lord Tarly, to see to my needs, but as I-I did not have any, he has allowed me my own space.  He checks on me occasionally to-to make sure I have not fallen on my sword.” She hoped she sounded nonchalant and mocking, but the words tripped off her tongue harshly, betraying the anger she had felt as Lord Tarly had continuously reminded her that she did not belong.

“Yes, well, Tarly is a bugger, that we can agree on,” he scoffed, “but what caused the honorable and brave Maid of Tarth to want to swear her life to a man that clearly has no rights to the throne? Stannis would have a better claim, being the eldest brother of Robert, and Joffrey has the greatest right since he is his son.”

Brienne shot him an exasperated expression before she could fight it back.  For a moment, she doubted the truth of Stannis’s statement.  Would Jaime really lie to her? He had never tried to hide his past of king slaying.  Yet in that instance, he was the only one who had to bear the consequences of his actions. If he admitted that he fathered the boy sitting the Iron Throne, then the Lannisters would have no right to the crown and his sister and children would most likely be cut down before they could flee King’s Landing.  Brienne tried to school her face as she realized she hoped that Jaime would continue to lie to her about this topic.

He was watching her curiously, but some of the mirth had melted from his gaze and she felt the menacingly dangerous glare of the man that she found in their training field at times. He narrowed his eyes, causing her to fear he would tell her everything, threaten her, or leave, not knowing which option would be worst. But he simply said, “You rode out _before_ Stannis sent that parchment, anyway, did you not?”

“Oh.  Ye-yes. But…Joffrey is a-a cruel king and if he is that as just a boy, I could not imagine what he would become as a man…” She paused to see if she had offended him.  Even if Jaime was not his father, he was his uncle. But he simply nodded and motioned for her to continue as he took another large gulp, followed by another. Brienne took her own sip. “And though Stannis adheres to honor, he is ruthless and unforgiving.  A king must be gentle when needed and I hear he is not even kind to his daughter. The Starks have all of the north behind them, but they care nothing for the crown or the south. They would be of little help to Tarth if they won and returned so far away.”

The companionable amusement lit Jaime’s face back up as he laughed at her reasoning. She frowned, thinking that she had properly explained why Tarth would bend the knee to King Renly, but he just shook his head like she was hopeless.  “Am I supposed to believe you gave your sword and your life to Renly’s cause by default? Come now, wench, out with it.” 

“My name is-“

“Yes, yes, I know.  Go on, tell me the rest.”

Brienne sighed, stealing one more drink, realizing her flagon was nearly empty and the conversation would become more difficult once the warmth and detachment it lent her wore off.  “His Grace visited Tarth when I was younger. He was on a tour through the Stormlands and he stopped at our island for a week.  We held a large feast in his honor and he asked me for the first dance. I-I found him to be very kind.”

Jaime crossed his arms and leaned toward her. “You would give your life because of one dance?”

“I pledged my sword to a man that offered warmth and understanding where no other man had before,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly.

“Gods, wench, he offers the same platitudes to any woman! It doesn’t matter to him if you are fair or plain or hideous. As long as there is a cunt between your legs, Renly has no need of you.”

“Those are vicious rumors.”

“Walk by Renly’s tent late one night and tell me still they are rumors,” Jaime snorted.  “He probably showed an interest in you because he could not be sure what he would find under your breeches.  Hells, _I_ am not sure! Unfortunately, even if you were a man, you would be too masculine for his taste as he favors delicate flowers like Loras.”

“You lie!” Brienne vehemently spat.

“Remember I told you to open your eyes? Take a good long look at your gentle king and still tell me he cares to bed any woman, including his wife.”

Brienne started to rise angrily, but Jaime made placating motions to try to get her to sit.  “Alright, alright, I’m more interested in this dance than Renly anyway.” 

“It was simply a dance, as you said,” she grumbled as she sat back gracelessly on the log that rolled slightly under her weight, forcing her to shoot out her arms to keep herself from falling backwards.

“Yes, but a dance that _you_ participated in, when you cannot even sit without falling over yourself!” Jaime was laughing so hard, Brienne saw the knights nearby cast glances over at them.

Feeling nervous, despite the amount of wine which was now flowing through her veins, Brienne moved herself closer to the dark forest and away from the light casting over her features.  The night had grown cold enough that she could watch her heavy breath puff from her chapped lips and swirl in the air, caught up in the light breeze that cut through her light clothing.  Jaime’s own clouds were lighter and shallower as he tried to recover from his fit, sending up two small white plumes for her every one. He still chuckled occasionally, the sound filling her head louder than the drone of the wine, while he wiped a nonexistent tear from his high cheekbone. 

Though she should admit that her skills at dancing were as abysmal as the other talents that ladies were supposed to possess, like sewing and attracting suitors, she could not allow him to find more ways to mock her than he had already extracted from their weeks of sparring.

“I have been trained in the steps of dance,” she murmured.

Jaime stood suddenly, a smile on his face that reminded her of the one that flitted across his lips before he would feign a lunge. Just as when they practiced, she simply frowned and stayed where she was, waiting.  He walked around the fire, keeping his gaze on her as if she would dodge back into the woods if he did not watch her.  With the way his darkened emeralds glittered in the light, making her shrink in on herself as she sat, she may have indeed run should he break the spell of his scrutiny.  Though they may have been a match with swords in hand, Jaime enjoyed constantly reminding her of how unskilled she was when she was not fighting.

He leaned over her, his heat in the chilly air welcoming, despite having to keep herself from moving into him as well. His golden hair fell into his eyes and her hand twitched to push it from the gaze that locked her in her spot. He used one of his own fingers to lightly brush it back while his other arm reached out to her, enticing her to let him help her up.  She could not look down, away from his face, to properly see where his hand was leading, but she felt its warmth hover over her shoulder and roll down to her elbow. She gave him a questioning glance, too afraid that her voice would betray how vulnerable she felt, for once being faced with someone hovering above her, making her tilt up to catch their eye.

“If you can dance with the delicate Renly without crushing his dainty toes, then I am sure you can spare a dance with me,” he smiled. He tapped his hand on her arm this time while he swept the other one behind his back and tipped his head in a bow.

“I _did_ step on the king’s feet,” she tried feebly to deter him.  That only made him laugh more, though he did not forcefully take her hand as she expected him to.  He simply waited for her to accept.

“I think I am drunk enough not to feel it, so up you go.”

With a sigh that turned into a breathy laugh, she slapped her large palm against his and practically sent him tumbling into her as she yanked on him to help pull herself up.  They both laughed slightly as they ended up standing, but holding onto each other’s shoulders for support.  Brienne made to step away to a comfortable distance, but Jaime took the opportunity to slide his warm hand down her side until he reached where her waist should have been and continued to run it behind her back. The contact was enough to make her gasp and try to push away, unsure of why her body seemed to want to melt into him. Perhaps the drink was starting to affect her legs more than she had realized while sitting down.

Unfortunately, Jaime did not let her step away, hugging her tight while he watched the emotions wage war on her face. It was unfair, she thought, his sudden demand to invade her space just for the sake of viewing her discomfort as she struggled to find a way to politely disentangle herself. Before, she would have wrenched away and perhaps even drawn her sword at the absurdity of the situation and his obvious malice, hoping to cut through the pain that he could cause. Though she knew not when _before_ was or where _now_ had begun, she could find no callousness in those shining gems, despite the mischief that still worried her.

Once more, he invited her to join him, rather than allow herself to be pulled where he willed, by holding out his other hand by his head for her to take.  She glared at it, considering for a moment how much she could blame on drink the next morning.  It was becoming difficult to stand without leaning into Jaime and she was curious about the feel of the rough calluses that bloomed below the inside of his fingers. As he cleared his throat impatiently, she tentatively placed her palm against his own, noting how his fingers extended on both sides of her own, that she could curl her tips over his. Though his skin was dry and broken in places, the warmth of his touch coursed down her arm and sent her heart racing. She fought the urge to close her eyes and disappear as he twisted his hand so that he could clasp it around hers, feeling the patches of smoothness that she wanted to follow and the strength of his grip sent her palms sweating.

Jaime quickly let go to wipe his hand on his breeches, but he maintained his hold on her back, pressing her into his hip as he snatched up her hand again.  “Alright, wench, remember _I_ lead.”

With that, he took a step towards her and she immediately took a much larger one away, opening a respectable gap between them and letting the cold air set their heated skin to chills.  The move had not been from her memories of the failed attempts by her septa to teach her to dance, but rather it arose from her need to distance herself as far from another person as she could. He must have anticipated something like that would happen because he was now gripping her tunic to make sure she did not escape completely and took two steps to press against her once more.

Brienne stole one large breath and gathered her drunken courage to look down at Jaime.  His eyes shifted to her shoulder when he took another step and she let him move her back with him.  When he wanted to pull her to the right, his hip would bump above her thigh and she would match his foot as it moved away from them.  The turns were more difficult and they did indeed result in her plowing into him and stepping on his feet, but she finally realized that his gaze would follow their joined hands as he moved them first where he wanted their bodies to end up.

The swaying motion of their dance calmed Brienne slightly, though whenever her concentration would slip, she was rewarded with a curse as she trampled his boots or bruised his ankles.  Her instinct was to look down, but he always swept her away so that she would have to revert her gaze back to his eyes in order to watch where he was taking her.

“So tell me,” Jaime murmured into her ear. “Is this anything like your dance with that tart?”

His voice, closer than ever, pitched so low that only she could hear him, was another blanket of warmth that fell over her and lulled her closer into his embrace.  She frowned at him, wondering when she had ever danced with a whore before she realized that he was referring to the king.  She should have reprimanded him for speaking against His Grace, but while she had been wrapped up in Jaime, she had not even tried to recall the moment she had shared with King Renly, the one that she had carried with her in her heart for years.

“N-no,” she conceded, not knowing why she did.

“Hmmm and what did he do to win your heart, then?” The infernal rumble again set Brienne’s nerves tingling. Since she was being more complacent, he had let his hand run up her back to hold her tighter and now that she did not need to see his eyes, relying on the signs of his body, he had pressed their chests together so that their heads were almost touching. Thus, not only could Brienne feel the ripple in the air from the lion’s reverberation, but she felt it start in his lungs.

“I have no affections for the king besides those of a loyal subject,” she hissed frantically.

“Don’t think you can lie to me, wench,” he whispered, turning them lazily in a slow circle, his pelvis making similar motions. “I know the look of a lovesick fool and it would only be for some maiden’s fantasy that has you coming out here to pledge yourself to a man that is not only married, but has no interest in your sex.” He sighed.  “Though you are one demented cow of a maid to think that laying your sword down in front a man is an act of love… and here I thought that my own heart was tortured.” The last was a mumble, spoken into the linen of her tunic as Jaime pressed his soft lips to the hard, unyielding plane of her broad shoulder, his breath sneaking under the fabric to explode against her skin.

The intimate touch was enough to rouse Brienne slightly from their drunken swaying, hardly moving much besides around one another. She shifted her side away from him, fearful of rousing his anger or amusement.  To her alarm, his mouth followed her for a moment, turning them tighter, until he stopped and looked up at her.  He laughed, bringing her back into him so that they could continue their dance.

“You have the strangest interest in men,” was all that he said.

“I told you, I do not favor King Renly,” she snapped, tugging them around more violently than was necessary, and kicking his foot accidentally in the process.

Jaime simply offered her half of a smile and though he let no sound tug open his lips, she felt the growl vibrate through his chest and run towards her body in every spot that they touched, feeling like tingling caresses.  A soft sigh escaped from her, the sound all but betraying her maidenly virtue, surprising both of them. Jaime watched her lick her lips nervously as he moved to hover just beyond her reach.  If she tilted her chin just a bit, their noses would touch, but she would have to make the effort to close the gap.  _And do what?_ What was precisely happening that Jaime Lannister would need to breathe in the warm air that she was expelling shallowly from her mouth as she greedily sucked in the moist heat that was coming from his own? Without realizing, drunk more on the way his hands were running up and down her sides and back, Brienne leaned in.

The look that had darkened his features earlier suddenly flashed again and she could not discern his thoughts once more. But his body became tense under her fingers, his eyes narrowed, and his throat worked as if he were trying to keep back bile.  Brienne backed away, worried that in her inexperience and ungainliness, she had angered him somehow. Though she had never sought to set off the Kingslayer, she had always found a slight satisfaction in it. Tonight, though, he had started to discover her secrets and it would do no good to turn her only companion against her, especially for something she did not understand.

Jaime let her take a few steps away from him before he followed her, roughly grabbing her sides, above where her sword was belted, and wrenching her back into him.  This was not the same gentle, undemanding Jaime that had danced with her moments before, but rather the Kingslayer, who would lose himself in their sparring and aim to hurt her.

“I know all about your fantasies for that green boy, wench,” he snarled into her ear.  She should have pushed him away and headed back to her tent, blaming the wine for his dark turn, but a part of her insisted she stay to hear the rest. “Is it that he can never be yours that makes him so desirable? Is it the lure of secrecy, hmm? Or rather, would you enjoy the shocked expressions from the people when they see what an abomination your coupling and your children are?” He moved back to stare into her eyes as he delivered his final blow.  “I am an expert on unseemly relations.  After all, I fuck my sister whenever I can get the chance.” He watched her, allowing her to take back the space between them, clearly relishing in the way she tried to shrink from him and the revelation he had released into the night. The horror must have been plain on her face with the way he smirked triumphantly, landing a killing blow he had never been able to deliver with blunted sword in hand.  “And, wench, I _live_ for it.” 

 


	5. The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay with this chapter. I wanted to feel comfortable with it since it's one of the inspirations for writing this story. Thank you for sticking me with and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you to Coraleeveritas for putting your heart and time into this and never once making me feel like I am being overly sensitive nor a hassle to you. Thank you for being my rock and a bright spot in every day!
> 
> To SandwichesYumYum: monkey. That sums it up! ;)

The wench had finally pushed him too far.  The thought of blaming her for the night’s events seemed to be the only thing that would finally settle his boiling blood and soften his cock enough that he could fall into a fitful sleep.  He had been rather proud that his good behavior had fooled Renly into trusting him to wander without guards.  The only other soul in the camp that might notice his disappearance would have been the Maid of Tarth, so he had planned on goading her into drinking just enough to allow her to fall asleep unprotected while he could take her sword and make for the tethered horses.  He had not anticipated finding her warm and pliant in his arms, nor had he thought the proximity of her solid and unfeminine frame would cause his body to react. It had startled and angered him to feel a want, growing in his loins, to press harder into Brienne, spurred on by the realization that she had no idea how close she had been to finding herself on her back beneath him.  The night had been a betrayal to Cersei, from his foiled attempt to escape to his thoughts straying to another woman, despite how loosely that word could be applied to the wench.

Though he could attribute his body’s natural reaction to the expansive amount of time he had been separated from his sweet, soft sister and from the drink, what occurred after he had trudged away from a confused and disturbed Brienne was nothing except desperate foolishness, a slim hope of still succeeding in his increasingly doomed mission.  He had skirted the perimeter of the feast, noticing the smattering of guards that Renly had posted.  He waited in the shadows until a lone knight passed by without noticing him before lunging out, slamming the man’s helm into the temple to disorient him while Jaime yanked him into the darkness.  Jaime managed to throw him to the ground and unsheathe the man’s sword before two more guards were upon him, drawn to the rattle of metal and the fallen knight’s shouts.  It had been a poor attempt at escape, especially by Jaime Lannister’s standards, but he had been overcome with the need to return to Cersei and leave the wretched camp behind.

The absurdity of the situation amused, rather than annoyed, Renly when the guards had thrown Jaime at his feet.  He had excused the behavior, citing the drink stirring blood lust in the captive Kingslayer.  But, impelled by Lord Tarly’s demands for punishment, Renly had ordered that Jaime be held in his tent for a week and the next time he raised a hand to anyone loyal to the young stag, he would be sitting back in his cage.

So, Jaime attempted to sleep with the knowledge that his actions were not his own, but a product of the insufferably innocent young girl who tried to dance with the Kingslayer.  Any other woman would have recognized that their bodies had been far too close to have been acceptable in court and that the subtle roll of hips against a man could excite him in scandalous ways.  But Brienne knew of none of this.  Jaime could not quell a small delight in spoiling her fantasies of her innocent dance with a flaccid Renly Baratheon, replaced with memories of what it truly meant to press against a man.  As for himself, he would make it up to Cersei everyday he was home for the indiscretion of his starving body, while in the meantime, he would avoid physical contact with the wench and wait patiently for another chance to get away.  Bitterbridge sounded like an excellent means to try to escape again, this time with a plan and a more level head.

 

The week away from the exercise of sparring, replaced with the boredom in lounging in his tent, did little to still his resolve to be free of the Baratheon camp, but it also made him hungry to be back on the temporary training fields he scouted with Brienne, expelling his frustrations through his sword. The army moved once during his confinement, at which time he was able to spot the wench from afar as the group moved closely together.  He saw her straw hair suck in the wan sunlight as it bobbed above other heads and he strained to see her better without slowing his pace or drawing the attention of his guards.  She was frowning harder than he had seen her do as of late, which drew some contentment from him that she was clearly as miserable as he was.  Yet, as she pulled alongside the horse, Jaime spotted another figure striding on the other side of her, holding the reins as well and trying to engage the wench in conversation.  The boy looked to be around her own age, but while Brienne was noticeably ugly, her new companion was easily forgettable.  He had a plain appearance, save for a scar on his cheek, and mousy hair cut even shorter than Brienne’s own lank locks.  But, admittedly, his face lit up pleasantly as he offered casual smiles and laughs, coaxing her from trying to melt into the ground.

Though Jaime had never seen the wench with anyone else beside himself, he was not surprised that her unusual looks had drawn some curious youth to try to engage her.  Clearly, he was not creating too much of a bother as she did not offer him the vicious scowls that she tossed to Jaime, but she did nothing to encourage the boy to continue. From his own experiences with her, Jaime doubted that she would ever offer any, even should she wish for the company.

Having grown bored with the sight of another person hounding the shy maid, he plodded along, forcing his guards to pick up the pace, and tried to enjoy the light walk that he had been afforded with the typical short trek of the camp. He amused himself by thinking that the only person who would be winded by such brief journeys would be his dear brother.  But before his legs gave out, Tyrion would most likely tire his lungs from all of the jokes he could think of concerning the Baratheon army.  In the absence of Tyrion, and finding that Jaime missed him even more than his sister, he tried to at least imagine all of the japes that his brother would make as they moved.

 

When Jaime’s freedom of the camp was finally restored, he was hesitant to return to Brienne’s tent to try to spar with her again.  Regardless of the maddening stillness in his muscles, he doubted she would be as willing to practice with a sister fucker as she had a king slayer, since his confession had also solidified the rumors that he was Lord Commander to a child that had no rights to the throne he sat. But there was no one in the Baratheon camp that the reticent maid could trust with the revelation, and who would heed her words, despite the close relationship and knowledge she had with the man in question.  Jaime’s wine and anger induced confession would never reach another’s ears from the wench’s mouth, but it may have caused irreparable damage to the fragile truce they had created.

Convincing himself that the Maid of Tarth’s opinions of him meant as little as anyone else’s, who was not a Lannister, he decided to search the edges of the army to find where Brienne had hidden her spot.  Once he came across it, spying her impressive but demure mare and her large tent, he was shocked to find that all of his musings about her alienation from the army were once again refuted by the presence of another man eliciting charming attention upon the wench.  This one was only slightly older than the plain boy that had held Brienne’s mount, but he was more handsome, with dark eyes framed with heavy lashes and a wide smile that was trying to pull his companion’s eyes away from her hands, settled but fidgeting nervously in her lap. 

As Jaime’s strides became longer and more determined, he watched as the knight, clad in brilliant armor that he must have polished just for the occasion, was able to retrieve a reply, one which he used to offer her his laugh as if it was a favor, while he scooted closer to where her large body was perched on a rock. The movement only caused her to fly from her seat, looking at him almost like she had looked at Jaime when he left her the week before. 

“Wench!” Jaime called.  She and the knight both turned to glance at him, Brienne with an expression mixed with relief, anger, and confusion and the man with unadulterated contempt.

“Kingslayer,” the knight interrupted.  He stood, most likely to use his height and build to intimidate, but he was a head shorter than the girl next to him and she would have looked much better in that armor, which he could now clearly see was ill fitting.  “What business do you have with the lady?”

“The _lady_ is late for our daily practice,” Jaime retorted.  The knight may not have noticed, but the myriad of emotions that were flitting across the tropical seas of Brienne’s eyes were starting to settle into a coming storm. She might not have understood what was occurring, but she knew well enough that she did not enjoy being ignored. “But, it’s unfair that you know my name and I have no knowledge of yours.”

“It is Ser Hugh,” Brienne hurriedly interjected.  She was eyeing Jaime uncertainly, but she seemed to be too embarrassed to turn to this Ser Hugh instead, despite addressing him. “And you are right in that we have a practice to begin, so if you would excuse us, Ser.” She spun away, heading to her tent where their practice swords were kept, leaving the two men to stare each other down.

“You heard her, she has plans with me, so leave the girl alone,” Jaime snarled.

Ser Hugh simply laughed at him, though he did take a wary step back when Jaime took a menacing move forward.  “Courting her, too, Kingslayer? There is more in it for me, I think, so make sure you give me clear space to take her.” With that, he strode away, leaving Jaime more uncertain about what his motives with the wench really were. Though he had little experience in the behaviors of knight and nobles pursuing a highborn lady, it did not seem like this one had any interest in the Maid of Tarth.  If he did, it would have perplexed Jaime even more since he could not see the use of the girl besides anything but a sparring partner. Ignoring the desire that she had stirred in him the week before, he could not imagine what a man would do _after_ marrying the wench.

When Brienne emerged carrying their tourney swords, she only addressed where the knight had been by casting a frown at the spot, before she thrust the hilt of Jaime’s sword into his chest.  Hoping to extract some expression other than fury, he pretended she had hurt him, rubbing at the place her hard knuckles had dug into the supple leather of his jerkin, creating a spark of friction that suffused him.  When she ignored him and started trudging to a site she must have found earlier, Jaime groaned with pain overly loudly.

“Be careful when you touch a man,” he hollered after her.  “Those paws can do real damage! What would Ser Hugh say if you tried to maul him, too?”

It may not have been the victory Jaime had been hoping for, but he watched as his barbs set her shoulders taut, though she continued walking without much of a pause, forcing him to trail after her.  Once they had reached an area that was partly hidden from the tents by a dip in the rocky terrain, she finally acknowledged him with the drop of her sword to signal her readiness.  Jaime had not thought of what kind of welcome he expected after a week apart, the echo of his final words creating a deep rift between them, but he had not anticipated her stoic silence contrasting with her willingness to spar. While he typically could read most of the emotions that she did not guard in her bewitching azure gaze, she was now the ice crusting over a lake, slowly killing the life underneath.  

They fought, or rather Jaime set his blade against hers while she brought up lazy blocks, letting her sword fall every time she did not need to protect herself.  The effort of keeping him from hitting her consumed most of her concentration since she refused to look at his face and thus, could not anticipate most of his strikes. The entire morning enraged him, watching the wench defeated rather than fueled by what had transpired between them. It was pointless practicing if she was simply going to let him circle her while she only tried to defend herself. He found sparring with her was not enjoyable if she was going to ignore him, not even allowing a blush or turn of her large mouth to entertain him and spur him on.

After a short time, dancing about and trying to coax her into making an attack, Jaime sighed and buried his blunted sword into the earth. “I had not thought that you would consider any act worse than king slaying, wench, but I suppose loving a woman is as great a crime to your twisted sense of honor.”

Brienne grunted, sounding like she was swallowing down a retort. He determined that was a promising sign of luring out the Maid that he had come to know, but before he could continue, she was already heading back to the safety of her tent. He exchanged a glance with his guards, who were too far away to hear any conversation, but could clearly sense discord between the two, and followed after her, denying her the space she seemed to have wanted.

“You should know about forbidden love, what with your infatuation with your king,” he murmured when he was closer.  She jerked her head at him, but only glared at his torso as she picked up her pace. “What if he wanted you in return? Would your duty really keep you from his embrace?”

“Do not try to justify what you did,” Brienne whispered furiously. “You have felt no need to have done so about your betrayal to King Aerys.”

“Ah, so you would rather hear about killing the Mad King,” Jaime shot back. Even when he had admitted to bedding Cersei and fathering all of the heirs to the throne, it still went back to Aerys. He could not recall in that moment what had made him seek out Brienne or why he thought she would be any different than the rest, because in that moment she sounded just like all of them. After spending so much time with her, he should have expected that the Maid of Tarth would cling to her honor like a drunkard would clutch to a tankard of ale.

“I have no interest in knowing any of it,” she replied.  “King Renly allowed you to train and I needed a sparring partner. There is no need to talk or spend any time together other than in the morning when we practice. If there was another person in this camp that I could work with, then I would choose to never see you again.”

Strangely, her words sent his chest tightening and his heart dropped. He had never considered another partner, but if he tried to think of anyone else that he would want to spend his mornings with, he could come up with none, even if his options were not confined to Renly Baratheon’s knights.  Brienne was skilled, though she was never boastful, and while her stubborn morality infuriated him at times, it made her reliable and trustworthy. Even if she had not been so determined to represent her childish image of a knight, Jaime thought that he would seek her presence just to stare into her brilliant eyes, to soak in the heat of her easy blushes and rare smiles that made him feel victorious when he extracted them. There was no woman in Westeros or the Free Cities that could compare to the beauty of Cersei, but there was something else about the wench that drew Jaime to her like no other female had before.

As they made the bend that brought Brienne’s tent into view, Jaime let out a curse upon spotting two men sitting in her camp.  They had been tending to a fire they were using to keep a pot warm, which smelled liked it was full of eggs and sausages. When they heard him, the pair turned towards where Brienne was emerging with the Kingslayer, both looking disheveled, and Jaime took some amusement in seeing the knights exchange glances of puzzlement and disbelief before glaring at him.  He was well aware of what it looked like he had been doing in the secluded terrain with the wench and whatever had prompted these boys to seek her out, like the others beforehand, clearly did not involve having her innocence tainted by him. 

The man leading Brienne’s horse had been strange, but the presence of the young knight just that morning alluded to the fact that she had caught the attention of some less than honorable knights.  Jaime could not, after all, accept that so many men were attracted to an ugly, masculine maiden with eyes a man could drown in, nor would her abysmal social graces keep them enthralled for long.  So, how dark were their desires and why were there so _many_ of them?

“Seven hells, wench, have you been hiding suitors all this time?” he snapped at her.

Brienne stopped, glancing hesitantly at her quiet sanctuary being violated by two forms trying their best to maintain their smiles at her, and looked back at Jaime.  He assumed she was judging between two nightmares, deciding which she would rather step into. Heaving her broad shoulders, she turned back to him.  “Some of the men my own age have been approaching me.  They have been very courteous, but-“

“But?” he prompted when she frowned at her feet before looking at him again. He wanted to be angry at her for her unintended mention of the age difference between them, but he could not deny the pride of having Brienne look at him and speak to him as before. He did not want to feel triumph at her choosing to look for comfort in his presence over hastening to the eager boys waiting for her.  But he did.

“But, I don’t know _why_.”

Jaime snorted.  “Perhaps they are simply doing as you would expect knights to do: lave attention and gallantry on every young maiden.”

“No,” Brienne shook her head.  “No one has ever done so before and I would not think that suddenly they would wish for my poor company now, not even out of a sense of honor.  I am no maiden that anyone would wish to court, I know.”

In the interest of arguing with her more, of keeping her standing with him, of the possibility of catching her slight smiles that sent her sapphires twinkling, Jaime spoke before he thought it through.  “Maybe Renly sent them to keep you company.”

It was the wrong thing to say, for him at least.  Though she did smile at him for a moment, it was not _for_ him.  The silly girl seemed to accept such a ridiculous suggestion, even after everything he had told her about the preferences of her king and the way the world worked.  It was obviously untrue and he never should have planted the seed of hope in her, but before he could stop her, she was making her way to her tent, the boys watching hopefully as she approached.

 

For the first few days afterwards, Jaime would have to scare off anywhere from one to four young knights in the mornings after their practices. He took a strange joy in doing so, to gaze upon their continued confusion as he and the wench emerged pleasantly tousled and breathing hard from their normal sparring area. He knew, though, that the men only returned later, as he had managed to see them at her camp in the evenings. He wondered how long it had taken them to ascertain that he had no interest in her, and wouldn’t be joining in whatever devious game they were playing.  Jaime understood boredom, the camp was just playing at war until someone stepped in the way to engage them in a real battle, but he could not understand why they were directing their attention at such a homely wench, considering how many pretty camp followers had joined the stags and roses on the road. And it appeared most had learned that the wench was hopeless at flirtations and so had taken to enchanting her with music, games, and food in an attempt to turn her head and garner her favor.  One even had a monkey that would dance around Brienne’s shoulders, making her laugh, a sound that clenched his heart and gritted his teeth. 

Despite the ominous feelings Jaime had about the sudden attention, Brienne never displayed any signs that they spoke inappropriately or cruelly to her.  In fact, Jaime managed to usually spoil her good spirits during training better than her gaggle of boys.  But he simply could not stop himself from roughing her up ignobly and throwing the lewdest japes at her that he could think of.  He knew that Brienne would be hurt eventually and he would rather it be by him.  She expected it from him, after all.

As the fight for the maiden raged on, neither slowing down, nor speeding up but trying to break out of a stubborn stalemate that the wench had likely imposed unknowingly, Jaime felt himself falling foul of one of the maladies that were circling the camp like ominous vultures.  At first, it had begun with a cough, but soon it was wracking his body, sending it into shivers burning under his skin or stabbing his insides with ice cold spikes that dropped his stomach into his feet. Other people in the camp were also plagued with the symptoms, some were bed ridden, but others simply roamed around sniffling slightly.  So, in light of how seemingly weaker men were handling the illness, he refused to succumb to the yearning of his muscles to remain still and sleep, determined not to let himself go to seed like an old man, stuck in his tent for days on end.

Even through the haze of heat and chill that alternated in clouding his mind, Jaime had noticed that few boys returned after an initial attempt to gain Brienne’s interest and it worried him that favorites were appearing from the group.  There were three men that continually haunted her camp and only approached her individually.  One was burly, fitting in as a blacksmith better than as a lean knight, but he had remarked on her blade and had sent his squire to help clean her prized armor, Brienne remarked to Jaime, and so, she tolerated him. Another was actually the youngest of the group.  He looked to be trying to fit in with the others, though he barely filled his piecemeal armor enough to keep it from sliding off his thin body.  He did not regard Brienne the way the others did, with determination, mockery, and vaguely concealed disgust, but when he managed to tilt up his head to stare at her, his eyes were filled with wonder and fright. Though the wench had frowned at the scared lad, she was a soft girl at heart and eventually took pity on him.

The last knight was the one Jaime loathed the most and was clearly trying to become the leader of the group. He had been surprised to see that Brienne allowed the first boy he had seen her with to keep coming around. At first, he assumed it was because the lad was plain and she was too flustered around some of the more dashing pursuers, but he soon realized that the boy had figured out ways to wriggle into Brienne’s graces.  She had not enjoyed the knights trying to impress her with pretty things like she was any desirable lady, so this one acted like he was not pursuing her so ardently. He brought her a spare blanket when the weather turned colder, a larger belt when he noticed hers was held by the first notch, and had even gone to grooming her mare as he told her stories of dragons and knights that he had been taught as a child.  But, most importantly to the lonely girl, he gave her the kind of attention a friend might offer, innocent and sincere, so that when he made to touch her a few times, on her knee or elbow, she did nothing to deter him.

The only benefit of the appearance of so many unwanted men was that Brienne decided to try to ignore Jaime’s most recent confession in an effort to keep his comfortable presence around. Their sparring lasted longer in the mornings than before the knights had begun to show interest and she simply blushed quietly when they returned to her tent and he chased away any boys that lingered, though it turned into a frown when she watched worriedly as he hacked into his hand after yelling.  Since she had the mindset of a mule, her favorite words to him afterwards were demanding that he sit down and rest so that she could tend her camp and keep any eye out for her suitors. 

After a few days of floundering, though, she had surrendered enough to beg his company for evenings as well.  She had not been able to complete the request, but after watching her lips tremble and her tongue roll and trip over her words, eyes wide and imploring, gazing at him without her typical judgment that separated them, Jaime finally guessed what she was asking. He did not want to remember the change in her features when he had agreed to supping with her, but it would follow him into his fevered dreams for many nights afterwards.  She had looked upon him with relief and joy, giving that simple smile that only served to make her uglier, but for some inexplicable reason, also caused him to want to pull her into his arms again and dance their clumsy steps, before he had ruined it all with needing her to know everything and either hate him for it or forgive him.

Brienne looked just as relieved that night when she saw him keeping his promise and approaching her fire, being trailed by two bored guards that started to wander, since he seemed to be trusted with the wench.  She was not alone, of course, though she was trying to politely scoot away from the favored boy.  Her face glowed brighter than Jaime had ever seen it, her freckles dark shadows that splattered her face and neck, swallowing up the blaze of embarrassment.

At first, as Jaime made his way to the pair, he could not tell what had caused this particular shade of crimson to adorn the wench, before he could only count one of the boy’s hands. The fingers he could see were curled around a pristine, though poorly made, scabbard that he was trying to press towards her, but, judging by the motions of his other arm, the rest were busy running along Brienne’s back, the same back that she had let Jaime’s own hands roam during their dance.

Without even realizing it, a snarl rumbled through Jaime’s chest and erupted from his throat.  The wench was watching him shyly, but the boy was busy buried in her hair, whispering something in her ear while nudging it with his nose.  For a moment, she turned away to disentangle herself, offering a polite smile and a soft reply, before she stood.

“Ser Hyle,” she addressed the boy.  Now with her back turned to Jaime, the knight caught a glimpse of him stopping behind her, as he flitted his gaze from the maid to the Kingslayer. “I am deeply grateful for your kindness, but I cannot accept such an exceptional gift.”

The knight stared at Jaime as he said, “You were more than willing to take what I offered before _he_ arrived.”

“I assure you, Ser, I never had such intentions,” she replied stiffly.

Sensing her growing ire, rather than simply finding the situation uncomfortable, the boy changed tactics.  He stood as well, sighing and attempting to look nonplussed.  “You are right, as always, My Lady.  With your permission, I will save this gift for when we are better acquainted.  Perhaps I could know you on the practice field as well.”

Brienne glanced back to look at Jaime questioningly, but he could only quirk an eyebrow at her, the growing distaste in his gut keeping him from speaking out. “If there is time in the afternoons, I would be honored to train with you.”

“The afternoons?” the young man laughed.  “I would much rather share the mornings you with so that I may have the memory with me the rest of the day.” The small curl of his thin lip may have looked to Brienne like he was hiding a shy smile, but Jaime knew it was a slip of disgust at the notion of having to think about the ugly wench.  A part of him could identify with the juvenile cockiness shared amongst the group of knights that had targeted the maid, but the realization that she held none of the revulsion to him that she did for the boys surprised him.

“King-King Renly has agreed to the exercise of his hostage and I-I would not care to defy him by denying his wishes,” Brienne managed to stutter.

“But you would deny a friend your company, My Lady?” he persisted.

“She told you I have her whenever I want, boy,” Jaime finally interrupted, sensing Brienne losing her resolve to argue.  “And currently, I require her company for dinner. _Alone_. So, run back to your camp followers.”

Fueling Jaime’s rage, the knight looked back to Brienne. Thankfully, she inclined her head awkwardly and said, “Good evening, Ser.”

“Pleasant dreams, Lady Brienne,” he sighed.  The bow he returned to her was so sweeping and ridiculous, Jaime felt the need to snort, which served to interrupt the attempted graceful arc. The noise also awarded him a frown from the wench and a sharp glare from the retreating boy.

When he finally stalked away, back towards his group of young knights, Jaime sighed dramatically and slumped down onto the cold ground, leaning his back against a log.  The coolness against his body helped relieve the sweat that had broken out as he strained to scare off the irritating suitor.  He waited, taking in large gulps of air as his vision blurred and his head spun, while Brienne gathered bread and cheese from her pack, along with dented plates and forks, only now noticing the bird roasting over the fire.

“You seem to be good with a bow, wench,” he stated, gesturing to their meal.

“My name is Brienne, as you know, and my father taught me to survive on my own, if needed,” she murmured, shyly handing him a plate filled with a portion of her rations and a dull knife to carve himself pieces of what he thought might be duck. “I never favored archery like I did with the sword, but this particular meal looked cold and haggard, so it was not a difficult target.”

“Still,” Jaime found his mood improved by the smell of fresh meat. He smiled at her while his trembling hand pulled out succulent layers to pile his plate.  “It’s a pleasant change from Renly’s fare. An army should not eat so much or so well, in my opinion.” He watched the way his compliments forced her blue eyes from him and her blush turned a softer pink, which was no less unattractive, but it was becoming her familiar hue when speaking to him in particular. He was, after all, the only person that she always allowed in the warm embrace of her camp.  He had not considered how much he had enjoyed having his wench all to himself until her time was being stolen away by other knights, ones with less infamous reputations.  “I assume that this supper was not to impress me as much as it was your attempt at avoiding the more crowded portions of camp?” The disappearance of her plump lower lip between her teeth confirmed the suspicion and made his throat close so tightly that he had to swallow multiple times before continuing, trying to ignore her working at her mouth.  “Is the enjoyment of all of your suitors wearing thin, wench?”

“I-I would not…prefer to be given so much attention,” she admitted. “And I still do not understand their motivations.”

“Oh, I have my theories,” he muttered.  “Am I right to say _that_ boy is the most persistent of the lot?”

“His name is Ser Hyle Hunt and he has not been like the rest,” she replied, her tone hinting at protectiveness.  The idea that she was defending him set Jaime’s blood to boiling again, though it may well have been the growing fever, and he stopped eating to glower at her. “I do not think that he is really friendly with the other knights.”

“So he would have you think,” he snapped.  “He is playing with you like all of the rest.”

“Playing at what? None have spoken to me poorly and though I do not feel comfortable with the interest, I have not been given reason to think that any of them have ill intentions.”

“That is the point! They will lure you into doing whatever they please, with gentle words and gifts, and only then reveal their true natures.” The outburst cost him the use of his voice for a moment while his body heaved his breath past his teeth, the sickness overwhelming his ire at her placing trust in the wrong people.

“Not everyone is like _you_ ,” she hissed.  The sudden shock in her gaze told Jaime that she had never meant to speak the words out loud and the look of regret immediately following suggested she did not truly mean them, either.

But, to Jaime, it was just another knife her innocent and derivative words could plunge into his heart.  “On the contrary, wench, I have never hidden my feelings about you or my intentions. You are an ugly brute that would not normally attract the notice of one, let alone a dozen, knights, especially in a camp full of lovely and willing followers.  I have no interest in watching you flounder around them in case this effects our sparring, since that is only what is important to both of us, as you have reminded me.  So, do not include me in the intrigues of these juvenile _boys_.”

Once again, Brienne caused him to forget himself.  Fueled only with the need to end it all so that he may return to having the wench to himself, he slammed down his plate and headed to where the group of Brienne’s suitors was gathered.  He had to keep his hands out in front of him to keep his balance and his wobbly legs under him.  Though the part of his brain that had not sizzled from the blaze of his body knew that he was being manic, it also did not protest to the thought of keeping these knights away from the wench for good. 

Since Jaime would be surrounded by armed Baratheon men, his guards left him enough space to ensure that he could not slip away, but did not follow him into the throng. He found Hunt lounging amidst the party, a flagon of ale in his hand, which he used to gesture as he regaled the captivated lads with his tales of triumph.

“She was melting like butter just from my fingers on her back!” he laughed. “Which was ridged with scars and so hard I thought I was caressing a rock.  Still, if she withers at that touch, King Renly will even hear her screaming when I use my fingers elsewhere.”

“Seven hells, Hyle,” one large young man barked.  “How can you even stand being near that thing? I would rather fuck my grandmother than have to slip any part of me into that beast.”

Hunt just shrugged.  “Wet and willing is always welcome for me, but to prove myself the bravest of you lot and take your gold only sweetens the game.”

“What was that, Hunt?” Jaime hollered.  He ungracefully shoved his way past some of the knights while others made sure to give the Kingslayer a wide berth, his reputation preceding him, even with the possibility that he looked like he was staggering toward a grave rather than a tourney ground.  Hunt, however, merely grinned at him and watched him step up until he was towering over the reclined boy.  “What exactly is going on?”

“Kingslayer!” he greeted jovially, raising his cup.  “Come to add your gold to the pile, finally? You have been my biggest competition, after all.”

“I’ve no need to give you anything of the sort.  I’m here to find out what all of you are doing with the Lady Brienne.”

“We’re doing the same thing you are,” another boy chimed in. “But the prize is much greater.”

Ignoring the rest, Jaime continued glaring at Hunt.  He posed his next question to him, sensing he already knew the answer.  “What prize?”

Hunt finally took his time standing, brushing off his breeches and straightening his sword belt before regarding Jaime.  The boys were simply playing at being something magnificent, like another Jaime Lannister, but they had lost a part of what it meant to be a knight: having someone to look up to and holding on to a respect and reverence of the greats that came before. 

“You must be just as bored as the rest of us, Kingslayer,” he drawled.  “And clearly you share our fascination with The Beauty. We just decided to make matters more interesting with a challenge to determine which of us had the strongest stomach.” Hunt grinned lazily at him, waiting for him to slap him on the back for the excellent notion.  Instead, Jaime crossed his arms to keep from reaching for the unprotected sword at Hunt’s side while he tried to focus over the buzz of his heart pounding in his ears, screaming for blood, his head spinning again from the fever. “There is quite a significant pot to see which one of us can bed the creature.”

Jaime knew it would be foolish to harm any member of Renly’s camp. He had already been threatened with returning to a cage if he laid a finger on another Baratheon supporter, but he knew that if Hunt confirmed his suspicions, he would not be able to stop from ripping this boy in half with his bare hands.  Besides, he felt like he was going to die from whatever sickness had infected him anyway, so to be dealt a more fitting death than being killed slowly and tortuously seemed the better option in the moment. “Are you aware that you are speaking of a highborn maiden, a daughter of your king’s loyal bannerman?”

“Of course!” Hunt laughed, letting the others join in. “What would be the fun in just fucking some hideous whore?”

In that moment, Hyle Hunt went from being thoroughly amused at the game he had been playing to being unconscious, blood pouring from his nose and from skin split beside his eye.  Jaime hardly recalled pulling his hand back and he barely felt the dull throb in his knuckles, but the satisfaction of hearing Hunt’s ragged groan simmer in the air above the blanket of fearful silence that settled over the group was enough to let him cherish the moment.

As he shook out his hand to relieve the stinging, Jaime finally addressed the other knights.  “This bet ends. The Lady Brienne will be treated with the respect she deserves and none of you will approach her again or else your beloved King Renly will hear of your harassment and I will deliver a punishment worse than Hunt received.” That should silence anyone wishing to report what occurred and he was pleased to note that the final threat was what sent most of the boys to turning pale and looking away.

Jaime made his way out of the group victoriously, proudly swaying just a little, only to be stopped by finding the Maid of Tarth herself staring at him as if she had never noticed his presence before.  Pausing, unsure of what she saw or heard, he watched her try to form a question.  When she finally found the breath to speak, it was only a single word: “Why?”


	6. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: In this chapter, Jaime discusses the topic of rape. I wrote this chapter at least a couple months before the season of Game of Thrones aired so it's hopefully not as bad as you might be thinking.
> 
> I am so pleased everyone was intrigued by Jaime's sickness last chapter. I have to credit Coraleeveritas since it was her idea. And since I am on my favorite topic, I also have to thank her. She has been instrumental in creating so many of my favorite points and scenes of this story. It would not be the piece that I am proud of if it was not for her. I would also not still be here if it was not for her and since this fandom is my happy place, she helps me so much in continuing to do the things that I enjoy. Coralee, you are an amazing writer, beta, and friend.
> 
> Thank you to Sandwichesyumyum for her constant and unwavering trust, support, and guidance to me. To feel fully accepted by someone I respect so much really gives me the confidence and inspiration to write. The comments you still make on these chapters makes my day.
> 
> To these ladies and my dear tamjlee, thank you so much for sticking with me these last couple of weeks. I know I've been a handful. And thank you to everyone who has been commenting and supporting this story. It gives me life!
> 
> On with the show! I hope you enjoy it!

It was the only word that she could pull from her addled mind.  _Why?_ Why had she been a target for these men? Why had she not followed her instincts and kept them from approaching her? Why had Jaime Lannister taken it upon himself to defend her maidenhood, when she had been capable of taking care of herself for years?

“Why?” she demanded again as Jaime walked past her, heading back to her tent.  Though he still looked handsome and refined, she had noticed over the past few days that his golden skin always carried a fine dew of sweat and his emerald eyes would lose focus when they were not trained on her. Others around her were succumbing to similar symptoms, but she had not paid attention to anyone as much as Jaime.

“I tried to warn you, wench,” he grumbled over his shoulder as she followed him, not knowing what else to do.  Absently, she saw him flex the hand that had collided with Hyle Hunt’s face, knocking him unconscious with a single punch.  “You wouldn’t believe me, you trusted _them_ instead. And what would have happened if I wasn’t here to put a stop to all of it? You would have had your knees spread for that boy in less than a fortnight, I’d wager.  I should have just placed my own bet instead of-“

“Stop!” Brienne shouted.

They were almost within the light cast from her campfire, well away from anyone else, but she felt herself blushing all the same.  It was hardly from her sudden outburst, but rather it crept up her skin as Jaime turned to pin her down with a wild, dangerous glare.  She knew he was angry and could sense that part of it was directed at her, though she could not understand why.  The confusion and the building _need_ , to know what was happening between them and the rest of the world, consumed any frustration she may have felt at his impossible attitude.

“Why did you hit him?”

“It was effective.”

“There were other, less violent alternatives, which would have been equally effective.”

Jaime shrugged, finally releasing her from his stare as he stalked away.  “None that I know of.”

“You-you should not have done that.  If the king hears that his hostage has assaulted one of his knights-“

“Gods, wench-“

“But,” she added quickly, wincing slightly as he turned, retracing his steps back to her, looking about ready to snatch her arms.  “But, what you did was…very chivalrous.  And I thank you.” It had actually been far more chivalrous than she could have imagined from him.

“Is knocking out any man that speaks ill of you the only way for you to converse with me civilly, then?” he snorted.  He crossed his arms and leaned back, almost going too far and losing his tenuous balance at staying upright.  Some of the fire had escaped from the burn of his emerald eyes, his skin appearing to be soaking up that heat instead, droplets of sweat on his forehead glimmering in the light of the fire.  But the way he was now brushing his cooled gaze over her made her wish for the familiarity of rage. “There will be plenty more like those knights.  The ground may be littered with bodies by the end.”

“I can protect my own honor,” she retorted.  “And I will be more cautious.  I should have known, after all.  They were not the first and I know they will not be the last.”

Jaime frowned, looking as if he wanted to ask for another story from her childhood or time in Renly’s camp, but he wisely chose to let it drop for the evening.  In exchange, Brienne could not bring herself to further question him about what had truly motivated Jaime to approach Ser Hyle. The knight had been surrounded by his peers, who should have stepped in to stop Jaime or at least detain him and bring him to the king.  He could have been seriously injured, which forced Brienne to wonder if she would have intervened to protect him, had she been fully aware of what was happening. Knowing that Jaime was acting out of some warped sense of nobility, for her honor, would have likely prompted her to defend him as he had done for her. 

But this realization only served to confound her more. Just a week ago, she had learned that Jaime had bedded his sister and most likely fathered her children, who were rumored to look nothing like anyone but a Lannister.  There was a false king on the throne because of Jaime’s actions, a cruel ruler who had adopted the worst aspects of both the stag and the lion if she could believe the whispers.  Brienne could not fathom that the same man who had done the most monstrous things would protect her reputation as a highborn lady, especially since she was so unattractive and unworthy.  Yet, she sat on her log by her fire, watching as this man, Jaime Lannister, slunk down against his rock once more and began finishing the remnants of his meal, strong fingers trembling to bring pieces of meat to his mouth.

As her tired thoughts frayed and fizzled, she found herself focused on nothing except the pull of sun kissed skin along his jaw as he chewed.  Brienne recalled the way in which his entire body had tensed while speaking to Ser Hyle.  She found it odd that none of the other knights had recognized the signs of Jaime’s rising anger, but then, none knew them as well as she did.  The way in which he had swayed subtly, shifting his weight between his feet, had reminded her of their dance at the feast and she could practically feel the press of his hips guiding her to how he wanted her to move. 

But, the power of his tight fist rearing back behind him, before slamming directly into Hyle Hunt’s nose, had not been so familiar. The lion had emerged, unmindful of anything besides the enemy, beautiful and broken in his valiant effort to protect and shield.  The idea that he had filled her vision with his grace and glory for _her_ , that he had become this for no one else but the silly thing that he enjoyed mocking, made her knees weak as if she were some delicate maiden from the stories.  She knew she was not swooning from the gallant way Jaime had been acting, but rather from the overwhelming fear and confusion about the man that was supposed to be her enemy seeking her out to share her fire and trying to be her companion, perhaps even her friend.

The frailty may have also been caused by the soft heat that had been suffusing Brienne’s chest since the night before.  The knights had warned her of the sickness that was flitting through the camp, some of them even offering to bring her herbs to ward off catching any disease, but she had refused to accept from them as she had everything else.  And since she had been seeking Jaime’s more familiar company, she may have contracted whatever he had been fighting for the past week, just from the close contact that arose every now and again when their swords locked. Or when they had danced.

She glanced at him now, watching as he miserably shook and tried to hide swiping his nose against his sleeve. The glaze in his eyes was still wild and she could tell the fever was starting to curdle his thoughts and was most likely part of the reason that he had been mad enough to strike Hyle Hunt on her behalf.

“Don’t fret too much about your knight, wench,” he murmured lowly, chuckling at the concern she could not hide from him.  “I have suffered worse for a maiden’s honor.”

“If only you had saved your sister from yourself as well,” she replied, not even realizing she had spoken out loud until she saw the darkness in Jaime’s expression blaze up and his jaw snapped shut.

“ _Sit_ ,” he demanded.

Without thinking about why she complied, Brienne retreated away from him to lean back against her log as he scooted further up his rock.  He had spoken as if he had more to say, but he simply stared her down for a long moment, sweat beading on his nose and collecting on his upper lip as he shivered, until she dragged her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, protecting herself from his gaze and the illness that was consuming his sense.

“Did you know that Aerys raped his dear wife regularly?” he finally said.

The question would have been shocking if Brienne had just met Jaime Lannister, but the events of the evening and the continuous company of only the Kingslayer had numbed her into hardly reacting. She simply bit her lip to swallow the maidenly gasp that blossomed in her throat and glared at him for trying to absorb her innocence out of spite.

“There are few who would know this, of course, but I am one of them,” he continued.  His words and the memories were too much even for him to dare to address her directly, turning away to stare into the fire, losing himself in the flames of the past, which seemed to add to the blaze that already burned inside. “The men, the _knights_ , the protectors of the realm were privy to it and I hope to the Seven, I am not the only one that is still haunted by the sounds. We stood outside of Aerys’s bedchamber, sworn to protect the king, and listened to him ruin that girl… too many nights.”

“I don’t understand why you are telling me this,” she whispered, hoping he heard the plea in her voice for him to stop.

Whether he recognized her need to shut her ears or not, Jaime proceeded, teeth chattering, still refusing to look at her. “At some point, matters that you still hold dear, like honor and vows, came to mean little.  If they had still held weight, I would have cut down Aerys much sooner than I did and his wife would have been spared the years of abuse. But, it was not my _duty_ to save people from the king.  I was supposed to save him from everyone else. And, according to Aerys, there were masses biding their time to kill him.  Funny how his undoing was not from any of the families he had actually wronged.” At that, Jaime grunted, a poor attempt at a laugh choking his words and dying in his throat.  It turned into a cough that wracked his chest for several moments before he could gasp for breath.

“That is what meets me at night when I fall asleep, wench.  If it was not for the sounds of the Mad King violating his sister, I would sleep peacefully.” He turned leeringly at her, making Brienne regret trying to catch his eye. There must have been something that he found on her face, something she could not hide from him, despite trying to appear impassive, because the sneer disappeared and he scowled at himself, turning away once more.  “I do not regret killing him.  I just wish I had done it sooner.  In the past few years, though, it’s not Queen Rhaella’s voice I hear behind that door…”

Regardless of wishing she did not know what he was speaking of, Brienne now realized that it was his own sister’s cries that must have haunted him as well.  She had heard the circling rumors that King Robert and Queen Cersei did not have a happy marriage, their arrangement even driving the king to seek the comfort of many mistresses.  Their discontent may also have sent the queen into her brother’s arms, though Brienne suspected their affair was much older than that.  Perhaps Jaime was not the one that had ravaged Cersei, but was the one who had tried to protect her, just as he had done for Brienne.

“I should not have stopped with Aerys,” he murmured, clearly forgetting that he was speaking aloud and to Brienne. 

The idea that he had considered killing King Robert as well sent a shiver of discomfort through her bulk.  Did she actually think that she could ever know Jaime Lannister? It seemed that he was only capable of lulling her into an idea of him that she could accept before he would add another layer that would send her reeling again.

“But I did.” Coughing, he finally kept his gaze trained on her.  It was filled with the typical rage that she had come to expect, but behind those eyes she found a man that should have died along with Aerys Targaryen, creating a Kingslayer who was truly mad, remorseless, and uncaring.

“I had thought that there was nothing left that I could not go away inside for. But watching _one_ die a little every day, or _two_ be tortured into a quicker death than they would think, had become easy. What was I supposed to do when _everyone_ would have perished in a matter of moments?”

Apparently, he was waiting for her to reply, though she had lost what he was referring to. There had been a battle the day of the king’s murder, Brienne knew that, but Jaime made it seem like he could have stopped it all.  She could think of nothing to say as she tried to choose from the myriad of questions that wracked her mind, so she simply nodded for him to continue.

“You have heard of wildfire, have you not? Was that weapon in your stories as a child, a flame so consuming that water merely spread it faster? It was made famous by Aerys and he had planned to use it to rid him of all of his enemies.  But, like I told you, he believed his enemies were _everywhere_ and so he had pots of the stuff placed in every recess of Kings Landing, waiting for his crazed command to set the entire city ablaze.  They would all _burn_ he kept repeating, it was the only thought that he could utter at the end.  And no one knew.  My father was making his way to the Red Keep and the Stark and Baratheon forces were closing in.  Aerys would panic as soon as they reached us and he _would_ kill us all.  My duty as a knight of the Kingsguard demanded that I heed my king, that I ensure that no one stop him in his machinations, but what about my duties as a man, a Lannister, a son, a brother? I was the only one that could stop him. So... I cut his throat and made sure that he would drown on his last command.”

The memories were tumbling out of his mouth, fueled by the fever that was coalescing into beads of sweat that clung to his skin and seeped through the fabric of his clothes. His teeth were clacking from the cold air that penetrated the damp and weakened barrier of linen and leather. But even though he appeared to Brienne like a man wishing to be rescued from his deathbed, his voice was strong, bolstered by the intensity of a moment that had both defined and destroyed him. The words were no longer controlled by Jaime and he had no choice on what secrets escaped into the night, captured only by Brienne’s eager yet unwilling ears.

By the time Jaime had gasped through his final confession, both of them were shaking, and not just from the fever consuming him and the mirroring one attempting to break through her strong resolve.  Brienne could feel her lips tremble as she ground out words of logic and doubt, words that she needed to say, though she already knew their answers.  “How could you have told no one of what occurred if this were true? Why would you not quell the name that they gave you?”

Jaime laughed, harsh and grating against her ears.  It was a noise that he had made countless times with her before and she heard it now as a groan and a whine, covered with human amusement at the ways of the Seven. “I slew my king. Would the honorable Ned Stark have ever admitted that what I did was justified? Would my father care that I had tried to act nobly as long as it still resulted in his rise to power? Robert Baratheon named me a king slayer and I cannot deny that that is what I am.”

Silence descended so heavily on the two that Brienne did not think she could surface from the way it sucked at her lungs.  She wanted to call it all lies, but she knew, without analyzing or dwelling too hard, that this was truly what Jaime Lannister was.  He was a knight, torn between the honor and glory and the name that raised him to the Kingsguard and the duty to life that made him willingly leap down from that pedestal. Now, he was a handsome, beaten man that would never see the dreams of a boy come into fruition. He was nothing like the knights she had fantasized meeting when she was a girl on Tarth. But watching the fire carve divots of darkness under emerald eyes that cut her with their stony determination, she found herself captivated by something that she had not thought him capable of. 

But he was still the enemy.  And all of what he had confessed to Brienne since meeting her did not change their loyalties. His words could not alter the fact that he had murdered a king, fathered a false one, and still lived, basking in the opulence of being a Lannister.  But now Brienne was beginning to see that honor and vows, regardless of how noble, could taint a man and she thought that Jaime could have been so much more if he had not let himself be torn by them.  She understood him better now, better than she ever thought possible and, for the first time, she saw a glimmer of remorse glittering under the heat of fever, though she was not sure where the guilt was laid.

“Do you judge me unworthy as the rest have?” he finally whispered into the night. “Are you like every stag, wolf, and rose? With all of your innocent words of valor and honor, what would you have done?”

 _I would never have been there_.  “It is getting late, Ser Jaime.”

“Yes.” There was the ghost of what might have been, etched in the small smile that pulled his full lips and transformed him into something greater, but irrevocably less, than his title. “We must be rested for practice in the morning.”

“Yes, we should.”

They sat in silence for a while, neither wanting to break the spell cast by confession and acceptance, unsure of what it would mean. Meanwhile Brienne fought against her urges to watch him. When she finally peeked, she saw him hiss and flex his fingers repeatedly on the hand that had made contact with Ser Hyle.  On seeing his injury, Brienne automatically stood to gather water and a strip of cloth, feeling Jaime’s eyes burn every time he stole a glance at her from under his curls while she busied herself heating the water and dipping the piece of material in it.

Trying not to look for his reaction, she moved cautiously on her knees to where Jaime had sprawled himself out on the ground. His other hand kept a tight hold on his plate of dinner he had taken back, while his injured one was curled around his muscular thigh.  She had hoped that he would offer it to her when her intentions became clear, but, of course, Jaime Lannister simply allowed her broad chest to engulf his form as she hovered over him to take his hand.  She tried not to let her hand brush his leg, but he sucked in an audible breath again when she started to lift his fingers, which caused the bruised knuckles to grind together.  She was forced to slide her own upturned palm between Jaime’s and his thigh so that she could bring his hand up, supported by her own.  She did not want to focus on the twitch and dance of his muscles as the backs of her fingers raked across his heated flesh, nor did she wish to linger on the way his fingers encased her palm, sending another memory of their dance jolting through her energized, fevered body.

It was a battle against herself to keep her hands steady as she swiped the steaming cloth across his injured knuckles, letting the heat seep under his skin and calm the blood swelling.  She felt the ridges of his rough skin through the thin fabric, the only thing that was separating them and from keeping the touch turning into a loving caress. Once the thought pervaded her mind, Brienne tried to quickly pull away, but the slight hold Jaime had claimed on her tightened, which turned what had become a sigh at her ministrations into a sharp gasp as he stretched his hand. 

She looked up at him, but he was merely engrossed in where they were joined, jostling them so that she was once again rubbing his bruised hand.  Stealing a glance told her nothing of what Jaime was thinking, but it caused her to be frighteningly aware of just how close they were.  If she wanted, she could study the plane of his cheek and count the number of coarse silver hairs that were sprinkledamongst his softer golden beard.  Just as she was tracing them down to his lips, cracked from the cold, exposing smooth pink flesh underneath, Jaime ran the tip of his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, wetting it before sucking it into his warm mouth and holding it firmly between possessive teeth.

Tearing her gaze away, Brienne forced herself to blame her fascination with Jaime on never having the opportunity to scrutinize a man, other than her father, so openly. She was simply comfortable with the Kingslayer’s presence since it was clear there was hardly even a companionship between them and she cared little forhis opinions.

So, she firmly ignored his proximity and went back to tending his hand.  After a few more dips into the water, and feeling Jaime’s grip loosen so much that Brienne had to hold on to keep him from slipping through her fingers, she made sure the strip of cloth was moist before she wrapped it tenderly around his hand, keeping it loose enough not to force his knuckles together, but still tight that it held his skin and muscles in place to hinder painful movements.

However, it seemed that her attempts at discretion, when peering at him, did not go completely unnoticed by Jaime.  His chuckle as she finished with his hand stirred her straw hair and sent goose pimples down her neck. Once again, she tried to pull away, now that her tending was completed, but he tugged her against him, more harshly than before, so that she was yanked to her knees with her torso supported by his hands on her arms.  Jaime nuzzled her hair away to put his lips dangerously close to her ear, similar to how he had found her and Ser Hyle that evening.  She froze.  This felt nothing like the uncertainty of allowing Hyle Hunt into her space.

His breath was hotter than it had been at the feast, searing through her skin and increasing the burn of the beginnings of fever that plastered her straw hair to her forehead.

“Goodnight, wench.”

“My name is-“

“Brienne.” It was a whisper, a taunt, a caress.  Once more, he captured her name in his mouth, swallowing each sound to make it seem like he was claiming it.  The hated slur that he typically used to address her now felt wrapped in the safety of indifference and distaste and when he acquiesced to referring to her properly, it felt like something much more treacherous.

“Goodnight.”

           

Brienne could not even lift her head the next morning, let alone rise to meet Jaime for their normal morning practice.  She was rather surprised that there was no rustling outside of her tent flaps that would indicate his arrival or the snuffling of Ser Hyle or some of the bolder knights who would not want to appear to be cowed by the Kingslayer.  However, the passing thought was replaced with relief that she could catch the rest her body was clearly aching for.  After finding one of her water skins and downing the entire contents, she changed the sodden blankets on her bedroll with fresh dry linens, laying down once more to sleep the day away.

The next time she was able to open her eyes, she found a small, elderly form peering into her tent, causing her to startle and reach for her sword.  It was too dark to make out his features, but she caught the glint of metal pieces playing across his neck as a chain caught the light from the fires of neighboring sites.  She calmed, realizing that he was a maester, but the panic that had momentarily swept over her forced her to slip into unconsciousness again.

As the sickness pulled her deeper into darkness, she could no longer find any respite in slumber. She dreamed constantly, insane, fevered scenes that drowned her so fast she could not remember how to breathe, before they released her just as quickly, enough so that she could breech the surface only so long to gasp for air.  Her lungs burned, her body ached, and her mind rebelled against the suffering.

She dreamed of Tarth and the warmth of summer and the comfort of her father.  She dreamed of a place so cold and dark that she could only guess it was The Wall that pressed against her side, and whenever she tried to move there was a menacing presence that reached out to grasp her heart, trying to steal her courage. She dreamed of Storm’s End and the lure of blue eyes and silky black curls that she would die for, that she wanted to serve every day for the rest of her life.  She dreamed of a lion who guarded her, prowling at the edges of her vision and pulling her back from some of the worst nightmares. There was no particular place that the lion appeared, whereas the others in her dreams were all anchored to a specific location, but it was everywhere she needed it to be.

“My Lady,” called an unfamiliar voice, yanking her back to the present.  “My Lady, open your eyes, please.”

Brienne groaned, rolling in her blanket, testing the willingness of her muscles. Hungry and thirsty, weak from the fever, she cracked open one eye to peer into her tent.  The maester was placing a cool cloth over her large forehead, frowning at her and tutting.

“The fever broke a day ago, My Lady,” he whispered to her.  “But had I not been here, you could have been sick for weeks more.”

“Wh-“, she coughed harshly, but was relieved that it was from the dryness of her throat and not from being in the grips of the illness.  “What do you mean?”

Shaking his head disapprovingly, the maester reached to grab a cup of water and brought it to her lips. She drank deeply, draining every drop, and watched him fill it again.  “I am not sure if it is your gender, forgive me, My Lady, but the malady seemed to claim you much more fiercely than the other knights that I have cured. The Kingslayer was up days ago-“

“He is well?” she quickly asked, forgetting herself.

“Yes, he has recovered quite well.  The king was most relieved not to lose his most important hostage. It was he who sent me to you.”

“The-the king sent you?” She felt her heart hammer at the thought of His Grace concerned over her well being.

“No, My Lady, the Kingslayer demanded I attend solely to you.”

“Oh.  My thanks to you, Maester.”

The old man left her tent to take a bowl of broth from a pot on the fire outside. He handed it to her, gesturing that she should sit propped against her lone pillow and a pile of furs, while he busied grinding herbs for a tea.  It took some energy to remain upright and though she felt tired and weak, the warm soup rejuvenated her.  She could feel the aftershocks of the fever breaking apart and rending her body into tremulous liquid, but she also felt herself seaming back together, eagerly soaking up the nutrition she was being fed.

“You should feel better in a day or two, as long as you drink the tea I give you thrice daily and eat as much as you can, while sleeping in between,” the maester was telling her as he poured hot water into a mug with the herbs.  “We will be making another journey in four days and then we will be at Bitterbridge. You will be back to yourself by then, just in time to watch the melee.”

“Melee?” Brienne perked up at that, stopping her assault on her first meal in days.

The maester motioned for her to continue eating as he said, “Yes.  King Renly announced that he would hold a small tourney when we stopped, showcasing his best knights, though any could join.  And the winner would be allowed to ask of him anything they wished.”

“Anything?”

“I suppose most would ask for gold or more wine,” the maester grumbled, staring off absently. “I would ask for more ointment and another tool bag.  My supplies are running low and we have not even entered into battle, yet.”

“And _anyone_ may participate in the melee?” she prodded hopefully.

“I suppose the king thinks that the more bodies there are, the more entertaining it will be, but it will just be a greater mess of knights for me to clean up after.”

 _If I am involved, there will indeed be many bodies_ , she thought. Jaime had been gallant in his attempt to protect her, but Brienne needed to find justice for herself. There was little doubt that the knights that had used her in their play would be competing in the melee. She could beat them all, ensuring that none would ever trouble her again, and, more importantly, claim the prize that the king had offered.

After finishing her broth and downing the bitter tea, sweetened with the honey that one of the knights had slipped into her saddlebags, Brienne fell back into a light, restive sleep.  The fever did not claim her thoughts and fears that night though, instead letting her mind drift to images of the last rainbow cloak, rustling softly across her shoulders. 


	7. The Melee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's update time! Thank you to everyone that has been taking the time to leave comments, especially those that have been sticking with me throughout. It really does help me during those writer's blocks and bouts of uncertainty.
> 
> One of the greatest motivators is my beta and my guru, Coraleeveritas. She has truly taught me to be a more poetic, feeling writer. The point of this story is the heart and Coralee has been my guide to channeling mine as well as J/B's. Thank you for filling it with your friendship.
> 
> Of course I must thank the selfless, sweet, and sensational Sandwiches. She continues to be there for me even when there is so much on her plate and it means more to me than she could know.
> 
> Tamjlee, my kindred spirit, also gave me something I will always cherish, like I will her wonderful friendship, and I have to thank her for orchestrating and reaching out to Chicky, who lured in the talented, triple threat that is the amazing Ladyoftarth. LoT created a breathtaking piece (http://ladyoftarth-posts.tumblr.com/image/85972673853) inspired by this story and it will be a constant source of encouragement and strength for me. There are no words, ladies.
> 
> Okay, on with the melee!

Bitterbridge was hardly worth capturing and keeping in Jaime’s mind.  The castle barely broke above the trees, leaving little for Renly's giant pavilions to lean against.  It was named for the crossing that had been constructed, allowing the Roseroad to sweep over the Mander, though even that was rather unremarkable as the river was hardly more the a quiet stream at which point a lazy stone arch, wide enough for three carts to pass along together, was raised just above the slow waters.  The only benefit to the town was the expansive plain that would be the setting for Renly's melee, sprawling away for the Mander, with enough room to house the host of the Baratheon army.

The energy in the camp had shifted as they moved closer to Bitterbridge.  Even as Jaime lounged around his tent, recovering from the fever, he could taste the palpable excitement in the air that reminded him of the energy before a battle.  The idea that the knights and their parties were so excited for a melee turned off his appetite just as he was regaining it.  Men should be preparing for war, not still playing at it while true combat raged around them.  Somehow, Renly had become the eye of the storm, peaceful and serene as the haze of destruction and chaos embraced him like a cocoon.  It would not last and when the air crackled and the winds howled, closing in on the stag, Jaime knew he could not still be trapped in the Baratheon camp when war came rushing in.

For now, he was content enough to break his fast with Renly and his Rainbow Guard in his expansive tent as they waited for an unannounced visitor.  Scouts had reported that morning of spotting Stark banners heading towards the town.  One identified that the head of the column was actually Catelyn Stark and that it appeared she also had a small group of heavily guarded hostages with her. On the chance that they were some of the lords and knights that had been captured with Jaime in the Whispering Woods, he accepted Renly's invitation to greet them.

The stag had been quite protective of his precious prisoner ever since word had reached him of Jaime's illness.  He had sent his personal maester to attend to him, though at that time Jaime was already on his way to recovery.  He had little memory of his fevered confession to the Maid of Tarth a few nights before, but he remembered enough to recognize that she had portrayed some of the first signs of falling ill as well and the burden of the truth may have tipped her into the clutches of fever. 

It had taken some coaxing and threatening, but the master had finally consented to visiting her, only to report that she was indeed much worse than Jaime had been. Luckily, after some time, his sparring partner was beginning to improve.  The tightness in his chest lightened at hearing such news and he was finally able to stop playing with the strip of cloth that had supported his injured knuckles and hovering around her tent while the maester checked on her, safe from having to face her while she continued to slip in and out of consciousness.

When she recovered, Jaime did not seek her out.  The maester had informed him she had been very grateful for the healing, but he doubted that she would feel such if she saw him just yet, so he kept to his own tent and watched the knights train and ready their mounts and armor for the melee. The grating of steel and the clash of metal rang throughout the camp like a cacophony of geese, incessant and distracting, while he prowled and flexed his healing fist until Renly had sent for him.

The mood inside the king’s pavilion was just as excited as amongst the camp.  Some of the lords were placing bets on their preferred knights and, ignoring the pretty frowns of his queen, Renly assigned his own hefty wager on the Lord Commander of his Rainbow Guard.  Loras blushed, rather more prettily than Brienne could manage, and haughtily replied that he would spend his evenings dreaming of the favor he would beg from his king.  Jaime laughed, trying to remind himself to tell the wench about how much better Loras was at flirting as well.

When the tent flaps were swept back to allow Catelyn Stark to enter, she brought in a cold that hovered in the air and chilled the reverie.  Her thin lips were set together disapprovingly and her blue eyes, much duller than Brienne's, were chipped with ice.  Not even the silky auburn curls that softened her sharp cheekbones and cascaded over her thin shoulders could make her look any less harsh. Jaime remembered the woman from Winterfell, when she had looked stern but warm and confident housed safely in her keep, surrounded by her family.  The war and the suffering of the Starks had clearly aged and spoiled the once beautiful Lady of the North.  She had not gone mad, not yet, but Jaime could see her icy stare clutch the party, calculating, planning, suspicious before she released them all from her gaze.

"Lady Stark," Renly greeted, his warm voice thawing some of the pall. "It is quite the pleasure to host you!"

"Lord Renly," came the reply.  She bowed her head slightly and dipped into the tiniest of curtsies.

" _King_ Renly," Loras corrected her immediately.

Lady Stark made no move to apologize and Renly waved off the insult, as he did with anything dangerous. "Please sit, My Lady, while my men see to the rest of your party."

He gestured to one of the chairs that sat across from him which had been left empty for his guest. As she placed herself gracefully on the edge of the seat, her gaze flickered to Jaime.  After years of etiquette as a lady, she did not let a single twitch in her face betray her, but he saw her refined hand grip convulsively on the dull knife next to her plate.

"I take it you are not here for the melee," Renly was saying.  "Though your timing is most fortuitous in that you will be able to witness it the day after the morrow."

"Yes. If only my son could stop the war waging from all sides long enough that he could play."

_The sly wolf had a point_.  "Clearly Renly is a much more successful strategist since he has managed to find the time," Jaime piped up helpfully.

Catelyn set her stare once more on him, though she addressed Renly.  "It is fitting that you have allowed your prisoner a place at your high table since it is the Kingslayer that has brought me here."

"You have always been too kind, My Lady,” Jaime smiled.  “But I fear I could not warm your bed, cold as it may be from the loss of your husband." He tilted his head to the side as he watched hers jerk back as if he had slapped her.  "Though I suppose you are used to it being empty after the nights he spent with the mother of his bastard."

"Enough," a gruff old knight behind Catelyn bellowed as she rose from her chair furiously.

"Lady Stark," Renly said at the same moment, hastily standing as well.  Margery reached over to place placating fingers around Catelyn's wrist, drawing her back into her seat.  "My apologies.  You know how terrible Jaime is with his tongue." Jaime’s smile widened at the unintended innuendo, but kept himself from laughing.  "He is here as a political hostage and thus, has been treated with the dignity of being highborn, as I told your son he would be before he released him into my care."

"While I respect the agreement and alliance that you two have made, I beseech you to allow me to take back the Kingslayer."

For a moment, the pavilion fell into silence, allowing the soft thrum of the knights practicing outside to pervade the space.  Though most of the bannermen appeared shocked that the mother of their ally would wish to defy a condition for a truce that had been set, Jaime would swear he saw Lord Tarly break into a large smile.

"Why would Lord Stark request this?" Renly demanded.

" _I_ am asking this of you.  As a mother.  You know that the Lannisters are holding my daughters, siblings of the King of the North, as hostages and they will not trade them for any lord or knight that we hold... save perhaps for the Kingslayer.  I wish to send him to King’s Landing in return for Arya and Sansa."

Renly frowned, glancing at Loras, who looked worried as well.  "My heart goes out to you, but Jaime is an important piece in our truce to Lord Stark and in this war."

"I understand that and I have brought with me four prisoners, taken from the Whispering Wood, who can take the place of the Kingslayer."

Jaime thought that he should start taking a gulp of wine every time Catelyn called him “Kingslayer” in the hopes that he would be quite drunk by the time their meal was finished. The inebriation may also allow him to hope that the lady wolf could be his salvation, his way back into the arms of Cersei.  He wondered what the wench would think of this turn of events.

"I will consider your proposal, My Lady, but I will have to seek council with my bannermen first.  Until I have decided, consider yourself my honored guest and come enjoy the melee."

Renly was only offered a tight nod of acquiescence, which he accepted by lifting his wine cup and taking a large drink.  The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, though the tension did not quite lift enough that the lords and knights did not have to force their good humor.  Lady Stark remained silent, only giving small polite smiles when Margery grudgingly tried to engage her in chatter.  Her cold eyes remained fixed on Jaime, though. The laughter rang hollowly as he returned her gaze, chin tilted in mock defiance, while the sound of swords meeting outside chanted and hissed _Kingslayer_ as he froze under her scrutiny.  The judgments cast upon him for his crime hardly touched him now, layered as he was in armor of derision and apathy that poisoned him over the years, but as Catelyn Stark weighed his life, he realized that she was not condemning him as Aerys's murderer.  She was a mother sitting across the table, sharing bread, with the man that had crippled her child. Jaime would not have blamed her for reaching across to stab him with the knife in her fingers, but she was desperate to hold her remaining children and was willing to forfeit her revenge against him to have them returned to her.

Suddenly, he wanted very much to leave and find the wench, to hide under her warmer, more forgiving eyes than sit under the cold wash of Catelyn Stark's.  However, his foolish pride kept him in his seat until the meal was finished and Renly dismissed them.  Only then did he allow his feet to take him in search of the Maid of Tarth. She may well hate him for what he had told her, marked him a coward for hiding behind his reputation, but Jaime knew that she would not look upon him as the mother wolf had. And he desperately needed her to see him now.

When he left Renly's large pavilion, he trudged across the camp, flanked by his usual two guards. This time they remained closer to him and when it seemed like Jaime's gaze was cast away, he noticed that some of the knights would watch him pass or murmur with each other, heads bent and mouths frowning.  This had been his greeting since he had risen from his sick bed.  It was clearly not the illness that had earned him the unfavorable attention, but it was a small side effect of having attacked Hyle Hunt. No one dared to approach him, though, so he accepted the whispers and gazes as he did everything else.

As his thoughts drifted to his destination, however, Jaime wondered if Brienne had been receiving similar treatment.  He had made it abundantly clear to the men that he did not appreciate their playing with his wench and the punch had made it all the more obvious how far he would go to protect her.  It would make sense if she was being subjected to the same, or worse, treatment than the Baratheon army had placed on him.

Quickening his steps unknowingly, Jaime rushed through the outskirts of the camp, searching for Brienne. Finally, he found her close to the Mander where there were small crops of bushes sprouting amongst the grass. She was meticulously polishing a set of armor he had never seen her with, slightly dented and deformed in places, indicating its use and tinted perceptively to cast a blue hue in the light. It could not compare to the glimmer of the Maid's own sapphires, but the way the metal glinted and sent sparkles through her eyes forced all thoughts except for her from Jaime's mind. Without recalling the confessions that had spilled from his fevered lips or that they were on opposing sides in the midst of war, that his heart belonged to another and his duties should bring him elsewhere, Jaime strode towards the girl, ugly and hunched over as she gripped a grimy rag in her dirty hands.

The sounds of his approach sent her gaze shooting toward him, the startled uncertainty she cast him breaking the moment.  Once she recognized him, though, the look slipped away, replaced by relief and slight hesitancy. She had been worried that someone else was coming for her.

"I didn't mean to scare you, wench," he started after they had stared at each other sufficiently enough.  "Though most maids find my company welcome."

"You may join me," she grumbled, returning to her cleaning.

"Were you expecting someone else?" He pressed.  "There are no more suitors lurking about for me to challenge, is there?"

"No."

"And you are feeling well?"

"Yes... Thank you, for sending the maester."

"Well, thank Renly since I was simply borrowing his." Jaime had wanted to hear those words from her, though he had not sent the old man in hopes of gratification. Still, it would do no good to show the wench how pleased he was to extract another sign of appreciation from her. And he hoped his relief at knowing she had not been further punished for her involvement with him had not been apparent.

He sat down close to her, watching while her hand ran up and down the breastplate, applying pressure to reach into the dips and curves of the piece.  It was clearly made for her, wrought in fine metal as it was and carrying no adornments besides the even and beautiful tint to the steel. The chest was broader than most and though it offered no give for a swell of teats, the waist was marginally pinched. No one would have noticed it, but since Jaime had felt the slight dip above her hip when they had danced, he knew to look for the curve.

"That's a decent suit you’ve got there," he commented.

"My father gifted it to me on my sixteenth name day."

"I have not seen you with it before.  Are you beginning to worry I could harm your huge body with my tourney sword?"

"No," she spat at him, glaring angrily.  Jaime laughed as she hastily turned back to her task.  His amusement vanished the moment she began chewing on her lip, fighting to release a thought while distracting him with the way her worked mouth turned a sweet red and glistened with the moistness from her tongue. "I...I plan to wear it...in the melee."

"As much as it is easy to forget, you are a lady and they will not allow you to fight alongside knights," Jaime snapped.  He felt his pulse quicken and had to set his jaw and cross his arms to keep himself from reaching out to shake the silly girl.  For days he had mocked and lambasted these fools in his head, never thinking that the wench's desire to prove herself would turn her into the rest. Perhaps her participation also stemmed from a need to distance herself from him and appear united with the other knights.  If that was the case, then she had learned nothing from the past months and her head was still as wrapped around songs and tales of honor and duty as it had been when he first met her.  Whatever her motivations, he knew she would be laughed off the field.

"No one has to know that it is I that will be in the armor," she replied defensively. "And King Renly never refused my desire to fight.  He will not deny me a chance to practice in the melee."

"Why would you demean yourself by joining in this folly, wench? There is an actual war that you could be fighting in."

"One which the king has been able to avoid, preserving his men for when they are truly needed, where they will be fresh and ready while the enemy is already haggard from all of the fighting." Brienne thrust her chin at him insolently. "It is a smart plan and this melee will keep the knights eager and fit for battle when we are called."

"How many times must we argue about this," Jaime threw his hands up, already exhausted from the way they circled each other, even off their practice field. "Renly is a coward and he is not prepared properly for battle.  You will die if you fight for him."

"That is my choice and no concern of yours," she hissed back.  Her face was beginning to turn an angry red and her hands clutched the rag, forgetting her task in her ire.

"Are you fighting in this melee to prove yourself or are you fighting for Renly's favor when you win?" She gave him a strange look at his choice of words, though they slipped out without thought.  He shrugged at her.  "You _will_ win.  You are the best knight in this bloody camp."

"You have not seen the others train," she replied.  Though her tone was harsh, Jaime enjoyed the way her angry skin warmed and brightened as she unknowingly offered him his favorite blush.

"I've seen enough," he grinned maliciously.  "I know that I would easily win and since you have bested me, rare though it is, then you will prevail just as well."

There was the faintest roll of her eyes as she went back to polishing her armor, but there was a much more noticeable smile. He had to ruin it of course, as well as remind her with whom she had spent most of her time since joining the army.  "Don't worry about asking Renly to free me as your favor.  Catelyn Stark is trying to convince him to send me back to King's Landing to exchange me for her daughters."

“What?” Brienne stood so that she was peering down at him, giving him a clear view of the furl of her lower lip and the flare of her nostrils.  “Has the king accepted her?”

“He’s _thinking_ about it,” Jaime replied, letting the notion of a return home to settle in for the moment.  “Or rather, his bannermen are making the decision for him.”

“But, why would he refuse?” she frowned as if searching for the answer herself.  “The Stark girls must be terrified and who knows how your family has treated them?  His Grace _must_ bring them home to their mother.”

It was Jaime’s turn to roll his eyes, annoyed at the ease with which she condemned the Lannisters, despite chatting amicably with arguably the worst one.  “Well, I don’t know, wench, my family may have _eaten_ the young maids by now and then I’ll still be stuck here.”

“They are young girls being held prisoner by those that have already beheaded their _father_! I heard Sansa Stark was present for the execution as well.”

_Why did she have to make everything sound so much more monstrous when she stated it all so judiciously?_ Jaime sighed resignedly. “You’re right and I’m sure that Renly will see that.  I _am_ a valuable hostage, wench, but I suppose Renly’s involvement in returning Robb Stark’s sisters will strengthen their truce.”

“Yes,” she agreed with a finalizing nod.  She blushed slightly as she thought about the news, eyes darting to him.  “That means that soon you will be leaving.”

“Gods, let’s hope so.” The statement brought some sort of closure in the space that hovered between them.  It forced Brienne’s gaze away from him, concentrating on a spot over his shoulder, and giving him a rare chance to be allowed to study her.  He wanted to see some sign of longing, but the emotion was too tender to be on such a large brute.  Maid though she may be, her shadow engulfed his entire form and forced him to look up slightly to meet her gaze.  “Come with me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I will need an escort to King’s Landing and you could do well there as a knight-“

“I will _never_ bend the knee to the Lannisters-“

“Then serve in the City Watch or train some of the green squires,” he heatedly argued. “You will be much safer behind the gates.  And we can continue sparring.”

“I swore an _oath_ ,” she cried.  “I gave my sword to King Renly.  How could you speak thus as if it meant nothing? Vows may be worth breaking to _you_ , but I would never betray mine.”

_So nothing has changed between us_.  “You made this vow before you had the chance to ride with me. Is it really worth dying for?”

There were so many arguments on her lips, straining up her throat that worked like a pelican trying to swallow an oversized fish.  But, being the stubborn cow that he knew, she settled for the finality of a single word: “Never.”

It echoed through his mind as he spent the rest of the afternoon watching her finish cleaning her armor and begin sharpening her sword.  _Never_.  She worked efficiently, the even strokes of her hand lulling him as he followed the movement.  _Never_.  Occasionally, she would let the flesh of her thumb run along the gleaming edge to test the sharpness, further captivating him with the way her eyes would widen with the catch of her skin on the blade. _Never_.

Soon, Jaime would gladly leave the Baratheon camp behind and his steps would be set to where his heart truly belonged.  He had been starving for Cersei’s touch, to see his own eyes mirrored in his other half. There was little doubt that his father would send him back out to fight, a thought that held as much appeal to him as Cersei’s lips, but for a few blissful moments he would be able to hold his sweet sister again and give her all the comfort that she had been missing since his capture.  However, he could not imagine what she would think if he brought the wench along with him. There would only ever be Cersei and Jaime had made sure that she would never doubt his devotion to her, but to present the most beautiful woman in Westeros with the ugliest would be an insult. Perhaps _never_ was best for them both.

           

The next day Jaime promised not to bother the wench while she prepared for the melee.  He wanted to tell himself that it was because he was nothing but a distraction to her on the best of days, but he truly hated the way she mimicked the other knights as they readied for the ridiculous display as well.  He had never seen her blend in with the other knights more than as he had watched her move meticulously in her chores just like the rest.

Thankfully, he was spared from a monotonous day away from her by the offer to entertain the hostages that Catelyn Stark had brought.  They were heavily guarded in a small pavilion near where the knights of the Rainbow Guard were housed.  It was small, leaving only enough room for the four men inside to sit around a simple table that took up the expanse of the interior.  There were no rushes over the cold earth to warm them and the flaps had to be pulled back, allowing cold air to rush in so that some warmth could also be gathered from the fire that burned outside, near the entrance. No items, not even utensils, had been allowed near the prisoners, save for a flagon of warmed wine and a cup of stew.

Regardless of what Renly must have considered to be sparse conditions, the four Lannister men appeared more at ease in the camp than they would have been still caged by Robb Stark.  They were dressed warmly, though their clothes were not as fine as the ones Jaime had been given, and they were whispering conspiratorially amongst one another. Ser Tytos Brax raised his cup when he saw Jaime enter the tent while Lord Quenten Banefort rose slightly and nodded to him.  Mallor the Dornishmen and Ser Addam Marbrand moved to allow him to sit between them, both clapping their hands on his shoulders as he sat.

“Seven hells, My Lord, you have the luck of the gods to have been placed in Renly Baratheon’s delicate little hands than under the paw of those wolves,” Mallor chortled.

“If that frolicking deer asked for a kiss for the favor, I’m not sure how good your luck actually was,” Addam retorted.

“My honor is still intact, lads,” Jaime laughed.  “And if Catelyn Stark has her way, we will all be finding ourselves in more hospitable conditions…though I would rather be returning to King’s Landing with all of my men.”

“Our concern is to return our commander back to our liege lord,” Lord Quenten said.  “We will be fine as long as you have been freed.”

“Fuck that, I want to go too!” Ser Tytos boomed.  

They laughed at that and, as men in war were wont to do, skirted around the sensitivity of impending futures that could not be changed to focus on the small enjoyments that could be gathered along the way. Of course, their talk was pulled along with the excitement simmering in the camp and they began to joke about the desperation of Renly to watch men jostle and hold each other, culminating in the organization of the melee.

Topics were kept light, mindful of the guards that were hovering within earshot. Though Jaime’s men informed him that they would all be seated together during the competition, he still doubted that they would have to opportunity to discuss escape.  If Renly’s lords took their time in deciding Catelyn Stark’s plea, he knew they would have to try to sneak out of the camp in case the stag sent his men back to the wolf and continued to hold Jaime hostage. The addition of four battle hardened knights may well help in slipping away but four more figures to hide in darkness could also be a crutch.  Considering that Jaime had no success on his own, he welcomed the chance of trying to head back to King’s Landing with his men.

Jaime spent his day with the Lannister bannermen and then retired to his tent early, knowing that the camp would rise soon for the melee and trying to keep himself from checking on Brienne.  She was probably nervous. Though she had never discussed much of her past with him, Jaime did not think that the Evenstar had allowed his daughter and sole heir to participate in any tourneys, which meant that this would be the first time that Brienne would meet with more than a single knight at once. Jaime recalled his first melees and he remembered that despite the arrogance that usually stilled his blood, _he_ had even felt the slight tremor of nerves fueling the adrenaline in his young body. He had been more eager to please Cersei than claiming the title of champion, imaging how his victory would send her into wild need for her knight later.  She would writhe under him, donned in nothing but a sheen of glistening dew and the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty in her luscious hair. Feeling her eyes burn through his armor had been what made Jaime's blood sing.  He wondered absently if Brienne was more edgy at the prospect of him being in the stands tomorrow, watching her every move.

 

A fog rolled through the next morning, which meant that the field would be damp and the horses would be at risk of slipping in the moist grass or sinking in the mud kicked up by their hooves.  The air was warmed though, not chilled enough to create large billows of breath that could distract and blind a knight, already hindered by slits in their visors. And the sun would poke out from the wispy gray clouds, promising a brighter afternoon and a chance at drier grounds.

Jaime settled himself between Addam and Ser Tytos in a box below Renly's.  Some of the Rainbow Guard had been sent to watch over the hostages while the rest, save for Loras who would be fighting, were surrounding their king.  Renly's more loyal lords, his wife, and Lady Catelyn with one of her knights, joined him in his perch that offered a wide view of the expansive field.

There were hundreds of knights gathered on all sides, their mounts breathing heavily and gouging the earth with their hooves, the tension of their riders transferring into the manic horses, shimmering across the field and ending in Jaime’s coiled muscles as he anxiously waited with the rest.  A shout from Renly's stand marked the release of the excitement, sending knights into a tighter circle until they crashed against one another and the scream of steel and the cries of men and beasts rose through the air.

Jaime immediately searched out for Brienne amongst the throng.  As the sun cast soft rays down onto the field, breaking though the thin clouds, he caught the glint of blue farther downfield.  With a swell of pride, he saw her wield a Morningstar, the weapon rising above the swing of swords, maces, hammers, and axes. Though they were heavy and difficult to control, Brienne easily arced it across her body, sending any knight before her toppling from his mount and scrambling to be free from the trample of hooves. While others bore lighter tools that required a longer fight, one that rarely resulted in an opponent being unhorsed, the Morningstar struck true and quick, ending combat with an empty mount and allowing Brienne to make her way quickly across the field. It was a weapon made to display her glorious skills, her advantageous height and her fluid strikes. Jaime would have picked it for her, had she asked his opinion, though he would have kept with a sword for himself. He tried to imagine riding with her, fighting together instead of as opponents.

Her typically pacified mare was now foaming at the mouth, sawing at the bit between her teeth and shrieking loud enough for the crowd on the other side to hear.  Her ears were set back and her eyes rolled as other flanks pressed against her and some knights struck her in the hopes that she would scare and throw her rider.  Despite the madness and the burning need to rear and charge, the mare did not fell her master and she danced around the horses and bodies on the ground, protecting her knight.

Jaime smiled, watching the wench cut her way through the lesser knights and he knew that her horse was only personifying the bloodlust that would be ringing in the girl's body. He could feel the song of steel flow through him, as he knew it did her, sensed the way her muscles thrummed taut like a string and her heart beat to the war drum.  This is what they were made for.  This is what they were the best at.

As Jaime observed, he saw Brienne swiveling her head after defeating a foe, one that carried a banner of a green wall running against a white background.  Initially he assumed she was taking stock of her surroundings, but soon he realized that she was searching.  She guided her mare, charging towards a knight with a sigil of an army of red ants marching along a field of yellow and, instead of using her Morningstar, pulled back a gauntleted fist and rammed it straight into his helm. The knight shook his head, clearing the chaos from the blow, only to be struck by a passing mace before Brienne could engage him again. 

Next she spotted one that bore stripes of black and white checkers slashed across gray and she sent him and his mount rolling to the ground, the force of the blow from her weapon so violent that the knight's cudgel flew through the air. It was clear from the way his body slithered from his falling horse that he was unconscious before he landed, which may have been a small blessing for him since he would wake with a nasty scar where his helm was crushed against his cheek from Brienne’s Morningstar.

Jaime had no idea what had prompted her to find targets amongst a field of suitable enemies, though the result was entertaining to watch, until she had picked the next unlucky bastard. He recognized this sigil, a brown stag hung upside down on a pole against a white shield.  He had been forced to stare at it for weeks. Brienne was fighting her way to Hyle Hunt. She was taking down every knight that she knew had been a part of the bet.  Suddenly, Jaime was finding it difficult to maintain his seat, the need to shout and call to her in support so strong that he felt her name twine around his tongue, choking him in its attempt to be released. 

Hunt was turned away from her and she could have easily reached out and pulled him from his horse, but she circled around until they would be facing one another, giving him enough time to rid himself of his current opponent.  When he finally saw her, he did not give any sign of recognition. Brienne had forgone bearing the Tarth colors so that no one would stop her from entering the field and few had ever seen her take out her armor to recognize the distinct blue color. But Jaime doubted that she cared if Hunt knew her.  She would know. And so would Jaime. He watched raptly as she tried to punch Hunt, but unfortunately, he was too quick and blocked her easily. She brought up her Morningstar then, Jaime shuffling to the edge of his seat in order to get a better view, her fluid movement forcing Hunt to turn his attention away to parry the strike, giving her enough time to successfully land another blow from her fist. The force sent him reeling, giving Brienne the chance to thrust the head of her weapon straight into his breastplate. The strike caused his sword to slip from his fingers as he leaned back in the saddle, arms spinning to regain his balance.  Without hesitation, Brienne raised her foot from the stirrups and set it behind one of Hunt's knees, pulling it out and forcing his leg to fly over his horse. She did not even wait to watch him spin to the ground head first, before she was already riding away, having spotted a knight with opposing griffins on red and white.

Jaime could never remember finding so much enjoyment in watching another knight in a tourney. When he had started to compete himself, he was more immersed in his own placing and finding Cersei in the stands. But Brienne was a force that drew the crowd towards her.  He could hear some of the spectators murmuring questioningly about the mysterious blue knight. Though Jaime knew her abilities well, even he was inspired by the way she commanded the field and felt a desire in his limbs to be able to spar with her again, alone.  But as he could not look away from her, something else was also pulling at his gut, rising up his throat and squeezing his heart.  

“Well, the sweet rose does have thorns!” Addam exclaimed, pulling Jaime away from smiling at the vision of Brienne cutting through the knights.

He was pointing to the opposite side of the field where Loras Tyrell was keeping his opponents at bay with a large axe.  True to Addam’s observation, the lithe and smaller young man moved with obvious grace and a clear talent that could not be met by those that tried to match him.  He expertly guided his horse, using his thighs to place it where he desired so that he could utilize both his hands in hacking and defending.  When there was a broader, stronger knight facing him, Loras tended to dance and weave, brandishing his weapon to create more excitement, but staying clear of his opponent until he could slip in and quickly unhorse him. For those that matched his own weight and skills, the rose was much more brutal, showing that he had chosen the axe for the severity of the strikes and the freedom to rear back his arm and deliver heavy slices.  Few men were able to land any significant hits to Loras, but there was a pile of bodies forming near where he fought.

Soon, as Jaime predicted, there was no one left on the field of battle besides Loras and the mysterious blue knight that Jaime knew was Brienne.  The Knight of Flowers was boisterous and flashy in his fighting, putting on a show, but while he may have been entertaining, and the clear favorite of the crowd, his chest was lifting his armor with his labored breathing. Jaime had watched Brienne closely for signs of fatigue and he knew that she had been conserving her strength, letting her opponents wear themselves out, dodging strikes and biding her time before lashing out at the first opening for a killing blow. It was hardly a strategy that could work in open battle, but it was effective in a melee or closer combat. With the maid’s stamina and strength still high, and Loras’s obvious arrogance about the outcome of the fight, Jaime figured that it was going to be fun watching the captain of Renly’s Rainbow Guard get a good look at the horse trodden, muddy ground.

Brienne met the rose easily and started circling Loras, Morningstar raised in front of her chest. Unsurprisingly, Loras barked a laugh at his opponent’s hesitance and tried to make a chopping swipe to her side. In an easy block that did not waste much energy, Brienne swung the strike away.  Loras used the momentum to rein his horse to her other side in hopes of finding a weakness, but she simply repositioned her body and waited. Growing impatient, he made to use the top of his axe to ram her chin, but, once again, the wench dodged. Jaime felt his heart jump into his mouth, as if he was competing in the melee alongside her. She took the chance of seeing Loras still caught in his movement, and focused on the Morningstar, to bring her empty, gauntleted fist up to strike Loras’s helm square in the temple, just as Jaime had seen her do to some of her other challengers. Jaime winced, knowing that though the helm would mostly protect Loras, the impact could still stun him for a moment. Sure enough, Loras swung his axe wildly, clearly disoriented since he was nowhere near the blue knight.

“Seven hells, who’s that other one?” Addam murmured.  “He’s impressive.”

“ _She_ is,” Jaime replied triumphantly, grinning at him.

The fight continued in such a manner, Loras trying to vainly make a quick end to his opponent since the longer it took to win, the less skilled he would appear. Brienne, however, deflected most of the blows and only retaliated when a clear opening was presented, which only led to Loras becoming more frustrated.  To Jaime, it was apparent that Brienne had changed her tactics after seeking out the knights from the bet.  His time training with her had taught him that she could be aggressive, but still controlled, when needed, but her favored fighting style was to study her enemy and wait until he had exhausted himself.  With the rage burned away from all of her earlier battles, the calm, cool Brienne that he knew well was the one that met Loras.

The crowd was cheering for the Knight of Flowers and even Renly had left his seat to chant his lover’s name. Jaime and Addam could not help but join in, though they were calling loudly for the blue knight to stop playing with her food.

Eventually, Brienne was able to catch Loras in his ribs with a mighty swing of the Morningstar, sending Loras tipping precariously in his saddle.  She landed one more punch to the helm to ensure that Loras could not recover, and then jammed her weapon straight into the chest plate, causing Loras to tumble to the ground with a very audible grunt.

The camp was silent for a moment, the only sounds renting the air were Loras’s groans and his creaking armor as he tried to stand up, as well as the raucous laughter of Jaime and Addam. Lady Margery was the first to move, rising to stand next to her husband while she clapped pointedly. The men soon followed and after Renly recovered from his surprise, he offered a charming smile and eager applause to the blue knight.  For her part, Brienne gracelessly slid off her horse and moved to bow before the king. Her helm twitched slightly so that she could watch Loras wrenching off his own, revealing a dark scowl cast towards the kneeling knight.  Without a word to the champion, he made his way up the platform to look down from Renly’s side.

“What a show!” Renly beamed, offering part of his grin to Loras. ”You are everything and more that your father promised me.  I have only seen Ser Loras forced off of his mount a handful of times-“ Addam snorted next to Jaime, who had to hide his own laughter.  “Please, take off your helm and rise so that we may hear the favor you would ask of your king.”

Brienne hesitated a moment before she brought fingers, that hardly trembled, to reach up and yank off her helm.  Her straw hair fell out, sticking up in every direction after being matted against her head and drenched in sweat.  Her heated skin was inflamed from the heat of being trapped in armor, setting her freckles flaring out across her wide nose and high cheeks.  It took even Jaime a moment to recognize that she was a maid, but once she set her frightened blue eyes up to where Renly was standing, there was little doubt what her gender was.

The rest of the crowd had begun coming to the same conclusion as snickers and insults flitted around the edges of the field.  Jaime heard Lady Catelyn cluckonce, frowning hard at Brienne, while Lady Margery gave a delicate gasp, covering her sweet mouth with dainty fingers, but her lord husband was not at all surprised by the revelation of a female champion. He only smiled knowingly, allowing the taunts to grow louder so that Jaime could make out some of the names.

“ _Kingslayer’s Whore_?” Addam repeated, raising an eyebrow at Jaime.  “Has imprisonment made you go mad?”

Jaime scowled, hardly insulted at the title but infuriated at how it was meant to belittle Brienne after she had clearly proved herself to be the best of Renly’s knights, preying on her sex and his reputation.

“Please, Lady Brienne,” Renly called, silencing the growing mirth.  “I would be delighted to grant a favor to my bannerman’s daughter, my champion!”

The monstrous girl grew even redder at that, bowing to hide her discomfort. When she looked up again, eyes twinkling only for her king, she spoke barely loud enough for those on the dais to hear, “If it please, Your Grace, I wish nothing more than the honor of serving you and being by your side always.  I offer my sword and my life to you as a devout member of your Rainbow Guard.”

Her words, spoken in a low but clearly feminine voice, sent the crowd roaring again. Even Loras roused himself from his pouting to step towards his lover, beginning to argue.  Renly simply shrugged, holding up his hand to silence his captain and his men.  He smiled plaintively at Brienne, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he barely allowed his gaze to wander down to her.  “You will be knighted this very day, Lady Brienne.  You knelt as an unknown champion and you will rise as one of my personal guards.”

Those beautiful blue sapphires lit up with a joy that Jaime had never seen her experience.  It tightened his chest and made him grip the coarse edge of the wooden box suddenly, leaning in, begging her to look for him.  As if the surge of his emotions was something she could sense, Brienne’s hypnotizing gaze found him in the crowd.  The happiness fell away as she watched him for as long as their heated stares could be held without burning.  She quickly turned away, frowning slightly as one of the Rainbow Guards approached her with her cloak.

The days of sparring with her were over now.  He would leave soon and she would follow the stag for as long as she breathed. There was nothing left for them. Jaime had tried hard to protect the girl’s young heart, but it had been for naught.  She had belonged to another all along.


	8. The Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no adequate words to thank everyone for all of the love and support for this story! It gives me so much inspiration to keep writing!
> 
> One note: You may notice that I am delving into canon events that are from POV chapters in the books. I have taken liberties to play around with them to make them still feel fresh so even when I'm following scenes, hopefully there are still twists.
> 
> As always, I must thank Coraleeveritas. She is so talented and multidimensional in her pieces and style. Having her work with me through this story gives me much more confidence since not only do I love her as a friend, but I respect her immensely as a writer. Her word is gold! Thank you!
> 
> I have to thank Sandwichesyumyum. Her patience and support have been everything to me. I am so grateful to have the chance to use one of my favorite writers as a litmus test for the direction of this story. The time she takes to help me if priceless. Thank you!
> 
> And, you guys must see the perfect art that Maggie (jokertookmypicture) created! This is more beautiful than I could have ever pictured in my mind for one of my favorite moments. I can't stop staring at it! I can't stop smiling! THANK YOU! http://jokertookmypicture.tumblr.com/post/88216454114
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the aftermath of the melee!

"I told you that you would win, wench." The welcome familiarity of Jaime's purring voice drifted to her over the conversations of the other men, inciting her skin to rise as sweat still trickled down her spine to pool along her lower back. She could still see him in her mind’s eye as she had found him in the crowd while she was still bowed on the field before her king.  The inferno of his gaze was tempered in his tone, causing her to fear catching a glimpse of him again, now that a wall of ice had been erected where there had only been a fireside between them.

Brienne hovered at the periphery of the group of Rainbow Guard knights, still unsure of her place, trying to hide the trembling of her hands as she fell from the high of victory and was hit with the realization of what she had requested of the king. Though Loras had finally approached her to offer his congratulations to the champion, he had done so grudgingly, all the while being watched by an amused King Renly.  The other knights had mimicked their Lord Commander, but with the duty completed, they chose to ignore her presence.

Jaime's voice held more emotion than those of her fellow knights', but though she caught the swell of pride, holding it tight as her chest constricted momentarily with the feeling, she also heard the undercurrents of anger.  Hesitantly, she turned to him, hoping to find a pleased, beautiful face amongst the sea of scowls.  He must have seen her worry since, despite sneering himself, he relaxed the grimace and gave her an easy smile.

"You were impressive," he said.

Ser Parmen Crane turned at the compliment, nudging Ser Emmon Cuy as he surveyed Brienne standing next to Jaime.  Blushing at their scrutiny and the way Jaime was following the line of her armor with his eyes, she jostled him to the side so that they could not be overheard.

"Thank you," she mumbled, not entirely sure why she suddenly felt so shy.  Perhaps it was because no one besides Jaime's guards had ever seen them interact.  It may have also been that the Kingslayer was the first to praise her.

"You would have ended things sooner were you not picking targets, though," he continued as he savored her reactions. “I never thought you one for vengeance. Seems like something I would do."

"I was _proving_ myself... and it was justice not vengeance."

Jaime arched a thick golden eyebrow at that, eyes sparkling with mirth.  He opened his mouth to say something, but she saw his green gaze slip to her shoulders and he snapped his jaw like a lion closing in on prey. "Blue is certainly your color, My Lady." Brienne fought the blood rising to her cheeks again, looking away and not noticing as he leaned inappropriately closer. "But the colors of that cloak make you look like a cow," he hissed.  "Had I known that all the time we spent together was to prepare you to give your young life to that fool of a boy who calls himself king, I would have never taken up that tourney sword."

He pulled back, giving Brienne a moment to see the cold rage that froze his features and tightened his eyes and jaw.  He turned sharply, heading to where the other Lannister hostages were waiting before she could think of a suitable reply.

"Ser Jaime!" She called to him.  His steps faltered for a moment before he hurried them and disappeared in the crowd.

 

A week afterwards and Brienne could not rid his disapproving face from her thoughts. She ran her fingers across the heavy fabric of her Rainbow Guard cloak, which she had lain reverently across the table in her larger tent the night before, falling asleep staring at it while the soft moonlight cut through the dyed fabric like a crystal. She wanted so much to feel the completion and elation that she had dreamed would come with the cloak hugging her shoulders. But instead, she felt the weight of duty, the almost panicking need to always be near the king, to have her sword ready should he need her.  But with a final check of her armor and an adjustment of her sword, she stepped out of the new quarters His Grace had provided the final member of his Guard and stalked the few feet to The Lord Commander's pavilion, nestled right against the king's.  The knights that were gathered around Ser Loras merely raised their heads at her arrival before turning back to the Lord Commander.

In the days following her victory, Brienne was encompassed by the duties of a knight of the Rainbow Guard. When she was not flanking King Renly, she was expected to train with the other members and eat with them. She had not expected a warm welcome, but she had hoped that her skills on the field and her mutual love for the king would at least allow her to be accepted amongst the knights. And she had hoped that these would be the men that would finally look past her gender and appearance to find her worth and her heart hidden beneath.

“We have received word that Stannis and his men are making for Storm’s End,” Ser Loras announced.

Ser Emmon snorted, crossing his arms and bringing up a hand to stroke his trimmed beard.  “The arrogant prude.”

“Of course, King Renly wishes to ride out to try to parley with his brother,” Loras continued, mouth twitching humorously.  “His Grace will not give up on his remaining family and he hopes he can bring Stannis to his senses.”

“His senses burned up in the fires of his new god,” Ser Parmen rumbled. “And between the legs of that witch he carts around so openly.”

Brienne had heard about the beautiful Red Priestess that had joined Stannis’s army while his wife and daughter remained holed up in Dragonstone. She could not condemn him for having a woman amongst his ranks, but what she actually provided to the camp, since she was not a knight, was still a mystery and this unsettled Brienne.

“We need to make sure we are diligent in keeping a watchful eye, even on the men in the camp,” Ser Loras said.  “And especially when the king goes to speak with Stannis.”

“Do you think that any of our bannermen would actually try to harm His Grace?” Ser Emmon asked, sounding shocked.

“If they thought that they were protecting him from himself, then yes. There are some that feel they know better than the king and such men are dangerous.” Loras glanced at Brienne, standing off to the side, though not trying to hide herself from anyone’s notice. She had learned quickly to remain silent during these meetings and while it bothered her, there was little that she thought of that was not covered by the men.  “In order to get to Storm’s End before Stannis begins the siege, we will have to take our mounted knights and leave most of the camp behind. King Renly will bring his latest guest with him as a representative of the Starks and he will most likely bring the Kingslayer and the other hostages as well.  We must be extremely persistent about watching the Lannister prisoners and make sure they have no way to escape or get too close to His Grace.”

The rest of the knights turned to look at Brienne, their expressions ranging from curiosity to contempt.  She knew of the whispers about her and Jaime, spurred by her new position over the rest of the army and the scene they had made after the melee.  _Kingslayer’s Whore_. It was clear that the Rainbow Guard had caught the name, but she was relieved that the king and queen did not seem to look at her any differently since it had begun circulating the camp.

“We all know it’s unlikely that Stannis will entreat with the king.” Ser Loras finally tore his gaze from her to look around at each one of the other men in the tent.  “If that is the case, then I have counseled His Grace to go to battle.”  His words sent a murmur of excitement coursing through the tension in the knights and Brienne felt her own blood pounding in her ears, demanding a sword and a foe.  “We must be prepared to ride out against Stannis.”  When everyone gave their acknowledgement, he continued, “Lady Brienne, you are to relieve Ser Guyard in the king’s tent.  Have him come to me to help us arrange to leave.”

Nodding and bowing low to the Lord Commander, Brienne quickly left the tent, happy to be heading towards His Grace and away from the judgments of the rest of the Guard.  She stilled her face and tried to calm her heart from the anticipation of battle before she quietly pulled back the flap of the king’s pavilion just enough that she could slip inside and slide against the fabric wall, trying not to attract the attention of those already deep in conversation.

As soon as she appeared, Brienne felt the heat of eyes on her and she did not need to search for who was staring her down, daring her to meet his gaze. Since the melee, she had not been able to pull Jaime aside to speak to him about his sudden anger. However, she had seen him sparring with the other Lannister hostages and, perhaps she had never realized how often he visited King Renly, but he seemed to be with His Grace most of the time that she spent guarding him.  They never spoke, but he did not hide the way his eyes followed her, furious, demanding, needing. She could hardly meet his eyes anymore, but being in his presence without the opportunity to speak with him or be as free with him as before had become another weight to pull down her shoulders under her Rainbow Guard cloak. 

In truth, she had wanted to know more than just what had occurred at the melee since she had given herself little time to dwell on the confession he had thrown at her the night before the sickness had finally claimed them both.  At first, she had thought that it had only been a fever dream, but when she had seen the hesitant way that Jaime approached her afterwards, she knew that he had shared something with her, a secret that few, if any, knew. But that trust seemed to have broken the moment she had become the personal guard of King Renly and she found that she missed their camaraderie.

While Jaime watched her try to move stealthily around the tent, creaking in her armor, the others in the pavilion ignored her intrusion.  King Renly was without his queen as he sat on his wooden throne, listening to Lady Catelyn plead vehemently. She was standing, back straighter than even the two Rainbow Guard knights flanking His Grace, hands folded neatly in front of her, occasionally smoothing out the skirt of her grey gossamer dress. Off to the king’s right stood a cluster of his bannermen, lords that were only there to provide opinions and suggestions concerning Lady Catelyn’s request.  To his left were Jaime and the four Lannister prisoners that had been brought with her.  While King Renly’s men appeared uneasy and upset, the hostages were very much like their liege lord, lounging back on stools, hardly glancing at the guards that blocked them from His Grace.

“You know your brother better than I, My Lord,” Lady Catelyn was saying. “But you are putting yourself and your men at risk by going out to meet him.”

“He is family, My Lady,” Renly replied calmly.  “I must give him the chance to align with us. And he is no fool. He is well aware that my combined forces with your son outnumber his own.”

“My son and his forces are not here, though.”

“But still my army, broken up as it will be to meet Stannis, is greater.”

Brienne finally caught Ser Guyard’s eyes as she squeezed behind Ser Robar to take up a position off to King Renly’s left.  As she expected, the knight simply gave her a frown and the barest of nods, but she stopped him from moving away with a hand on his elbow. He grimaced and she saw a similar look spread across Jaime’s face as he watched them, but Ser Guyard’s quickly disappeared as he remembered his place.  Jaime’s glower only intensified when she leaned in to whisper harshly in the knight’s ear.

“Ser Loras wishes your immediate help with the packing of the camp,” she murmured.

Reluctantly, Ser Guyard nodded and replied, “Watch the wolf.  I don’t like how she addresses the king.” With that, he turned away and strode noisily out of the tent, not bothering to hide his exit.

"It is my opinion that Stannis will not agree to bend the knee to you or to Robb," Lady Catelyn said, her soft blue eyes flicking to Brienne momentarily.  "You will draw attention to the truce with the North and could provoke Stannis to begin attacking us."

"Lady Catelyn, it’s not battle that your son fears, since he has won every one of his," spoke up an elderly bannerman, Lord Eldon Estermont.  "You have come here to beseech the king to release the Kingslayer and now _you_ worry that His Grace will use the hostage as a bargaining carrot to dangle in front of Stannis."

Lady Catelyn inclined her head to the man, the corner of her thin mouth twitching. "Yes, My Lord. That is one of my concerns."

"As it should be," Lord Eldon snorted.  "It's a good idea, one which is being considered."

Jaime gave a shout of indignation while the other Lannister hostages rose to their feet silently. At the same moment, Lady Catelyn took an imposing step towards King Renly and both Brienne and Ser Robar reacted. Brienne immediately placed herself in between His Grace and the prisoners, earning another angry look from Jaime, and Ser Robar moved in front of Lady Catelyn.

"If you put me into the hands of your self righteous brother, Renly, I will be thrown into his fires that very night," Jaime hollered around Brienne. "Are you ready for the wrath of the Lannisters, _Your Grace_?"

"The Kingslayer is not wrong," Lady Catelyn agreed.  "If he is hurt, Cersei will kill all her hostages, including my daughters!"

"We could easily fight off an army from King's Landing if Stannis allied with us," Lord Eldon argued calmly.

Before anyone could protest further, King Renly held up a hand and motioned for Brienne and Ser Robar to step back.  When the pavilion had turned quiet and the tension eased as much as it would, he spoke, "I’m sorry for the position you have been placed in, Lady Catelyn, but should Stannis be willing to negotiate for Jaime, I must consider it. However, I will not say now that I would agree."

Lady Catelyn's proud posture slouched slightly as she tilted her neck in a slight bow. The air was filled with the finality of the king's words and everyone moved to leave the tent, Ser Robar following His Grace closely while Brienne waited to be the last to leave. No one caught her steal a glance at Jaime as he passed her, flanked by his guards.  She wanted to see him smile at her again, especially since the thought of him in Stannis's hands had sent nervous shivers down her back. The only mercy that he could hope for would be a quick death before being tossed into a pyre. Brienne could not fathom what she would do if she had to watch him leave with Stannis Baratheon.

Jaime did not offer her a smile, however.  As the prisoners jostled to leave through the tent flap, he swung casually to the side, moving close enough to reach out and run a single finger down the side of her hand, not stopping until it fell off the tip of her ragged nail.  Feeling the burning trail his simple touch had made, Brienne thought that her skin must have broken out in rashes and went to hide it with her other hand, unable to mask the blush that crept up her neck as she watched him leave, never letting his gaze drift to her.

It took Brienne a moment to realize that Lady Catelyn was watching, but, thankfully, she had been blocked from seeing Jaime reach out for her.  She gave her a small, warm smile, waiting for the rest to mill out of the tent and ignoring the hostages.

"Lady Brienne," the Stark matriarch started.

"Please, call me Brienne. I am no lady."

"Nor are you a knight." The comment had not meant to be cruel, but it stung Brienne nonetheless. She was nothing now but one of Renly's shadows. "You were magnificent during the melee," Lady Catelyn continued.  "My younger daughter, Arya, would have loved to see you best those men."

"I have not met many ladies that would enjoy a tourney for the skill." _I have not met any_.

Lady Catelyn laughed in a high and refined voice that set her cheeks red and made her look resplendent. "Arya does not wish to be a lady either.  If she met you, I do not think I could stop her from trying to be like you."

Brienne shifted uncomfortably, her armor complaining noisily as she changed her weight between feet. She hardly had any experience conversing with highborn women and she knew even less about accepting what could only be a complimentary, polite means of small talk.  She wanted to run, but she could not excuse herself rudely and as she knew the king was safe in the Lord Commander's tent. There was nowhere for her to escape to.

"I'm, I'm sure the notion would grow dull," she tried.  Noticing that Lady Catelyn frowned and began to speak as if to protest, she hurriedly continued without thinking, "And I'm sure a mother would know what to say to prevent her daughter from doing something foolish."

That stopped Lady Catelyn from what she had planned on saying.  "I had heard that the Evenstar’s wife had died.  I am truly sorry for your loss."

"My father has been an excellent role model.  I suppose I simply took _too_ much after him."

Lady Catelyn laughed again, pulling a small smile from Brienne's lips.  "If he saw you at the melee, he would be very proud, I'm sure."

"Thank you for saying so, My Lady."

"But as a father, he must also fear for the safety of his child."

"Yes, My Lady. He would not have chosen this path for me, but _I_ made that decision."

"Yet you know he still worries for you, as I do my daughters."

Finally, Lady Catelyn had smoothly made her point.  Brienne could not play the game of words within words as well as the lady could, so she had to reply bluntly.  "The King does not ask council of his Rainbow Guard and I would not overstep my place to give it."

For a moment, there was a flash of anger over the still beautiful face before Lady Catelyn's expression crumpled and she reached out to put her hand on Brienne's armored shoulder. "Forgive me, Brienne. I would never suggest you do such. I had just hoped that you would see my plight."

"I do, My Lady," Brienne answered honestly.  She patted the fragile hand that was still on her.  "I have faith in my king and I know he will come to the right decision."

"Perhaps," Lady Catelyn sighed.  "But the right decision for whom?"

That, Brienne could not answer.  There was only one right decision, though there were many that were wrong. If King Renly handed over Jaime to Stannis, he would be immediately and knowingly condemning many lives, including two innocent maidens.  _How could he justify doing that?_

"You are a very strong woman, My Lady," Brienne whispered to her.

"You are the strong one, Brienne."

"I have strength in the sword, but you have the strength of a woman. They are different."

"But no less powerful." Then, Lady Catelyn straightened once more and strode proudly from the tent.

 

Brienne tried to hold onto the thought that she could possess the power of a knight and woman. The split of the Baratheon camp meant that she was tasked more to guarding the king and taking command of parts of the mounted ranks as they traveled to Storm’s End.  It earned her a grudging respect from some of the knights, though her reward was simply less of the stern glares to her face.

Jaime seemed to have noticed the slight change in her position amongst the smaller army since he had taken to simply lounging around, watching with amusement when he did not think that she was looking at him.  When she could no longer stand the intensity of his gaze and finally succumbed to look at him, he would typically paint back on his sneer, but occasionally, when her thoughts were verging closer to dark and brooding, he would throw her a wink or one of the charming smiles that were so easy when they had first begun sparring.

By the time Storm’s End was in the distance, most of the forces were breathing heavy and ready for the rest that was promised while they waited for Stannis to agree to a meeting location. After much debate, King Renly demanded that he only take a small party to parley, with Lady Catelyn and her men representing the Starks, Lord Tarly and some of the more loyal bannermen to bear witness to the talks, and he would only accept Brienne to ensure his safety.  All of the Rainbow Guard, including Brienne, pleaded with him to take at least another with him, but he still could not believe his brother would draw arms with him at a parley.

“It’s not your brother that concerns me, Your Grace,” Ser Parmen had conceded. “That red witch is dangerous and unpredictable.  She does not adhere to the same honorary code as Stannis.”

“Be that as it may,” King Renly had said.  “The terms were that we would both ensure the other’s safety while on the hill.  If I cannot show trust in this, then it would all be for naught before we have even left.”

So, Brienne had found herself atop her mare, hugging King Renly’s side as his small group watched Stannis’s party gallop towards them.  The day was murky and the wind was fierce, whipping their horses’ tails and snapping at their cloaks.  They were perched atop a cliff which fell sharply into gray, rolling waters that crashed against jagged rocks far below them.  Against the backdrop of dull colors, washed away by the clouds and sea spray, Brienne felt like a beacon with her tinted armor and her garishly colored cloak swirling about her.

As Stannis’s party approached, she was able to make out the eldest Baratheon brother, draped in his new sigil of a burning stag. Having studied and dreamed of King Renly, Brienne could make out the similarities between the two, both tall and domineering in their height and build, with matching light blue eyes. But while His Grace was healthy and muscular, his cheeks tinted rosy with mirth and warmth, reflected in his eyes and easy smile, Stannis looked almost sickly, his features drawn tight into a permanent frown, only amplified by his sallow cheeks.  King Renly was crowned with a crop of raven curls and he enjoyed letting his dark beard grow to warm his structured jaw, but Stannis had only a wisp of graying hair on his narrow head and a small bristling of light strands dotting his cheeks.  Had Brienne not known the Baratheon features so well, she would have been surprised that these two were brothers, especially since she knew that King Renly had been the image of a their other brother, the late King Robert.

Brienne looked at Stannis long enough to take into account any dangers that he could immediately impose to her king.  He may well have beaten His Grace in a fight of fists, but his large sword, Lightbringer, swinging at his side as he rode nearer, would more definitely cut through the king if Brienne did not watch his movements carefully.

Despite the concern of Stannis being armed, she was drawn to the sight of the woman mounted at his side. The rumors of Melisandre were centered on her beauty and power, but Brienne had not expected to be so captivated by both.  The lady was voluptuous and carnal, exuding more sexuality than even Queen Margery. Her long fiery red hair flowed behind her in broad curls, exposing eyes darker than the ruby glowing against her pale porcelain skin.

Brienne felt even uglier with the vision approaching her. The woman had a knowing smile on her face, well aware of how her appearance could bend men to her will and cow any other female with her lack of imperfections.  But it was the power that slicked off of her like waves of fire that concerned Brienne gravely.  She recognized immediately that the priestess was the greater threat, though she carried no weapon or armor.

As if sensing Brienne’s thoughts, Melisandre’s red gaze flicked to her and it felt as if the woman had sifted through every pulse of her heart in the moment it took for her to take in Brienne’s large frame.  The small smile adorning her dark lips grew and turned into a challenging grin before she straightened to look at King Renly.

Stannis’s party halted a good distance before King Renly’s and the brothers rode forward a few steps to converse.  Brienne followed His Grace and, to her dismay, Melisandre followed Stannis.

“I never thought we would be meeting like this, brother,” King Renly hailed. He was smiling as if they were passing in the halls of the Red Keep and seemed at ease, lounging back in his saddle as he greeted Stannis.

His brother, however, sat rigid and tense, causing his horse to whicker and paw the earth from the strain.  He ignored the annoyances of his mount as he frowned at King Renly. “And I had not thought that you would be so foolish as to claim the throne.”

“I know,” King Renly sighed.  “But, well, you have never tried to make anyone love you, brother, and I fear that few will want to be reigned by such a… cold ruler.  And as you can already see, I have almost twice the number of houses under my banner than you.”

“It matters not what the people _want_ ,” Stannis hissed.  “ _I_ am the rightful heir and the throne is _mine_ by right.”

“Not until you can prove that Joffrey is not Robert’s.  Though, even if Jaime admitted it himself, I doubt that you would have many scurrying to you.  More likely, they would bend the knee to me, especially since I now have the Starks at my side.” The king turned on his horse to raise a hand to Lady Catelyn, who frowned at the gesture but raised her own in acknowledgement.

“Wolves and stags are natural enemies,” Melisandre suddenly spoke up, her soft sonorous voice singing in the crisp air.  “The wolf will always try to consume its weaker prey.”

“Oh, she’s pleasant,” King Renly laughed.

“She’s right,” Stannis snapped.  “The Starks will turn on you when they see how useless you and your _army_ are.  And what will you do when your _hostage_ brings down the wrath of the Lannisters?”

“You concern yourself too much with what the fires say of the future,” King Renly waved away the threat, reaching into his saddlebags to pull out a beautiful peach.

In the chilly fall, which had cut out the life of most trees and shrubs, the sight of the ripe golden fruit drew every eye.  Brienne could feel her mouth watering and she had to swallow a gasp as her king wrapped his pink lips around the soft flesh and bit and sucked a piece into his mouth.

He chewed with deliberate nonchalance, intending to incite his brother with his indifference.  Brienne thought that she should be anxious for the way that King Renly mocked the parley, and she wanted desperately for her heart to skitter at the sight of His Grace's plump mouth carefully playing with the tender meat against his teeth.  But she could only conjure up an image of another man, jaw dotted with a bristly beard, working his tongue around the game that she had caught for them.  That evening, watching Jaime Lannister sweat and smile and rage through his sickness and confessions, elicited more emotions than watching her beloved king fondle a peach.  That, more than the battle that now loomed imminently ahead, frightened her to the core.  But she forced it from her mind, excusing the turmoil in her stomach as simply having become too familiar with the Kingslayer.

Sliding the succulent portion into his cheek, King Renly spoke around it, wrenching Brienne from her thoughts.  “Where it stands now is that I can overwhelm your forces and take your men _and_ Storm’s End unless you agree to join us.”

“The present is only a fleeting thing and an army is only as strong as its leader,” Melisandre intoned. “If weak strands are all that hold it together, then one snip can unravel it all.”

“You are making a mistake, know that, but since you are my brother, I am here to offer you a way out before it all turns,” Stannis said.  “Give me the Starks and your men and I will allow you to be on the small council when I am crowned and you may be my heir.”

King Renly threw back his head and laughed deeply at that.  “You are no match, brother! I will not surrender.  But, should _you_ , I will let you command your forces under my banner and I will _give_ you Storm’s End.”

It was clear to Brienne that this parley was going to end without either brother giving in. She grew nervous about how much damage would be done before it was finished.  _If King Renly became desperate, would he say something to betray Robb Stark and his mother? Would he freely offer up Jaime?_

Once more, as if knowing her thoughts, Melisandre stopped trying to burn through King Renly with her stare to set her red eyes on Brienne.  She leaned over her horse, for a moment causing Brienne to think to move closer as well.  But she stilled, remaining upright on her mare, staring down her nose at the hunched priestess. While the brothers continued to make threats and ever more absurd demands, Melisandre whispered so that only Brienne could hear. “The lion’s heart tips precariously and is up for the taking. He will freely give it, once he chooses which wedding to attend.”

Sitting back up, Melisandre watched Brienne as she frowned and chewed over the odd remark. She did not like the idea that it concerned Jaime and marriages, but there was a dark part of her own heart that skittered at the thought that this was either a threat on his life or on his allegiance.  Jaime would never leave his family and his sister.  _Would he?_

“Go back to the lords that actually make your decisions,” Stannis was saying.  “I will give you until sunrise to surrender, giving me Catelyn Stark _and_ the Kingslayer, and if you do not, we shall go to war, blood or not.”

Melisandre finally turned from studying Brienne to take a short glance at King Renly, disdain writ clearly on her feminine features. As she seemed to soak in his form, her expression turned hard and dark.  "Fool,” she hissed at him.  "You show no concern for your own sins. But the night is dark and full of terrors; then they come to claim you and then you will know fear."

King Renly looked at her, eyes wide with surprise, before he threw his head back and laughed heartily once more.  Melisandre glared at him again before she turned her mount and galloped away, past the knights waiting for her and Stannis, and back to her camp.  Stannis paused long enough to watch his brother take another large bite of peach, letting the nectar dribble down his chin as he smiled. Then, Stannis rode away swiftly as well, his party charging hard to keep up with the priestess and burning stag.

As Brienne watched them leave, she felt a hand reach out and tap her arm.  She turned in her saddle to find that the rest of the king's men had joined them as King Renly finished his fruit.  Lady Catelyn had pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeves and was offering it to Brienne.  She took it with a smile of thanks and moved closer to King Renly, bowing her head and holding it out so His Grace could take it.

Sighing, the king threw the pit away and swiped the silk fabric across his jaw.  "Stannis wishes for my surrender or my death," he said, facing away from the others, still watching where his brother had disappeared into the trees in the distance.

"I warned you this parley was for naught, Your Grace," Lord Tarly grumbled.

"My Lord," Lady Catelyn started.

"Your Grace," Brienne hastily corrected.

Lady Catelyn nodded impatiently and continued, "Did Stannis speak true of the parentage of Cersei's children?"

"You mean, are they Jaime's?" Renly snorted.  "Stannis certainly thinks so, but I have my doubts now. Jaime would never be so foolish and I've never known of a woman, especially one so pretty as Cersei, that Robert would not have bedded.  Repeatedly."

"He may be right, though," Lady Catelyn argued.  "My son, Bran, was crippled after a fall from one of Winterfell's towers while Robert and Cersei had visited.  At the time, there were few in the castle, as most were out on a hunt.  Strangely, the Kingslayer stayed with the queen and none could find them until well after Bran's injury."

"What are you suggesting, Lady Catelyn?"

"I stayed beside Bran the entire time he was unconscious.  A man came in and tried to kill him, a boy who supposedly simply fell from climbing.  Bran's direwolf stopped the murderer, but I knew then that my son had seen something he should not have and that the Lannisters were covering it up."

"We had word that you had taken Tyrion and were holding him on trial..."

"The dagger used by the man intent on hurting Bran was traced back to the Imp, but he denied involvement... and he escaped justice.  But now I am sure that the Kingslayer pushed Bran when he came upon him with his sister."

Brienne could not stop the gasp that slipped between her teeth.  No one paid the soft outburst any mind, but Lady Catelyn turned to her, one eyebrow raised in question.  Brienne tried to look shocked and dismayed for Lady Catelyn's suffering but her heart and mind were reeling with trying to decide if she should accept the claim that Jaime would try to harm an innocent child.  Remembering the gleam in his eyes as he held her tightly against him, bordering on hurting her, as he told her about his relationship with his sister, Brienne could well imagine the things he would do for his twin. She glanced away, feeling too betrayed and foolish to hide the emotion that must be plain on her ugly face.

"The cruelty the Lannisters have bestowed to your children knows no bounds, Lady Catelyn," King Renly soothed.  "But what of this atrocity?"

"I believe Stannis is right.  So, this parley cannot be the end.  We must unite to prove his claim and once the Lannisters fall, we should agree on whom to name as king."

"We've tried it your way, woman," Lord Tarly barked.  "Stannis means to be king and the only way to stop him, or put someone else on the throne, is to take his head."

"We should not be fighting each other when we have a common enemy," Lady Catelyn pleaded.

"Tell that to Stannis."

"Lady Catelyn," King Renly interrupted.  "We have tried talking to my brother.  But he will meet me on the field at first light unless I surrender. And I have no intentions of doing that."

"Then we go to battle," Lord Tarly said, his gruff voice barely concealing the excitement interjected in his words.

While the knights and lords, along with King Renly, appeared eager to begin preparations, Brienne felt conflicted.  She had been dreaming about riding into battle at her king's side since she had arrived in the camp, but she wondered what would happen to Jaime if he was left behind. Stannis could send out a small force to sneak in and kill him.  They may even be able to get to Lady Catelyn, and Brienne suspected that the Stark matriarch would put up a fight rather than be taken by Stannis.  She may well meet the same fate as Jaime.

As they headed back towards the rest of the mounted army, Brienne vowed to herself that she would speak up about having a large guard placed on the Lannister hostages and Lady Catelyn.  She would have stayed herself, but her king needed her and she would never deny him her sword. But, as she stole a glance at Lady Catelyn, who rode quietly at her side, she found that she was torn between the simple demands of duty and the complicated needs of the heart. She had to ensure that Lady Catelyn could be reunited with her children.  And, despite the sickening roll in her stomach over the evils that Jaime Lannister was capable of, she could not condone him falling into the hands of Stannis Baratheon.  If King Renly was willing, Brienne wanted to help both the wolf and the lion go home.


	9. The Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for updating late, but that just means the next update will come quicker! Thank you so much for everyone that continues to read and support this story. The more into canon I get, the more nervous I am about how this will be received so your words are so important to me!
> 
> Coraleeveritas is not only a beta in the sense of proof reading and continuity, but she is a big part in how this story unfolds, whether she likes to take the credit or not. She gives me inspiration and ideas and paths to take, things that I could not come up with on my own. She is my lighthouse in the storm and despite being busy writing her own amazing fictions, she has always made me feel welcome when I am discussing the next step with her. It means more to me than she could ever know. Thank you!
> 
> Sandwichesyumyum is not only a wonderful source of love and support, but she keeps me grounded and truthful about myself. I could not feel confident and sure of my work if it was not from the feedback that I receive from an author that I look up to and aspire to. And I know she will always be honest with me and to have that connection is inspiring. Thank you!

Jaime prowled the expansive pavilion, feeling and looking like a lion circling his cage. In truth, he could well be sitting comfortably in the guarded tent where his men were being held. But Renly had allowed Jaime to be present upon his return from the parley, much to the scowls of his bannermen, and Jaime had wanted to hear the news of his fate firsthand. He doubted that even with Renly dangling his head in front of Stannis that his brother would accept any kind of peace terms.  _Why settle for less than what is deserved when all and more can be taken by force?_ Stannis believed he had sole rights to the throne and nothing would stop him from claiming what he believed was his. It was a twisted sense of honor and duty that Jaime hated, leaving no room for grays, and it sat even more poorly in his stomach since it sounded like a notion that the wench would agree with.

Still, there was always the chance that Stannis would surrender and Jaime would soon be sent to his death. He would make sure it wasn't burning alive on one of the Red God's pyres, but any kind of escape would certainly end in his death all the same.  It still would not stop him from taking the slim chance of freedom, should it present itself, even if it meant dying quicker.

"Stop pacing," Loras snapped from where he was sprawled in his sister's throne.

"A walk may do you some good," Jaime replied, not halting his gait or his troublesome tongue. "You must be sore from last night."

Loras slammed his hands on the arms of the wood, leaping to his feet.  "The king finds you humorous, but not everyone will stand for your japes."

"Oh, sit down, Loras," Jaime rolled his eyes.  "I'm a valuable hostage, so you won't hurt me.  And, even if you tried, I figure if a lumbering giant of a woman can best you, so could I."

"Just because your pet-"

"Lady Brienne is nothing of mine," Jaime snarled, suddenly matching the rage of the wisp of a knight in front of him.  "Is this how you speak of your fellow guard members?"

"She was raised to the Rainbow Guard by a wish."

"She beat you and half of the knights on that field.  Show some respect, boy."

"You do the same, Kinglsayer, and address me as Lord Commander."

"Only when you do the same for me."

Before matters could go further, and both Jaime and Loras forgot where they were, the party sent out to meet Stannis strode into the tent.  Jaime swallowed his next remark immediately, turning to seek out Brienne in the group while Loras stepped past him to go to Renly.

The wench would not meet his eyes, but he knew from the way her pale skin was set afire that she was well aware of his gaze and that he was doing little to hide where he was looking. He recognized it was foolish and that his attention while they were surrounded by lords and knights did nothing to quell the whispers when parted.  But he had been a proper prisoner and stayed clear of speaking openly and in an overly friendly manner to the newest member of the Rainbow Guard. Her position and her obvious attempts at avoiding him, however, would not keep him from trying to read her and watch her when they were forced together.

"My king," Loras bowed.  "How fared the meeting?"

"It was as you feared, Ser Loras," Renly sighed dramatically, throwing himself into his large chair. 

Jaime's eyes hounded Brienne's steps as she took her place behind Renly.  The bannermen seated themselves as well, though Jaime found that he was quickly surrounded by uneasy enemies, standing with Loras, Randyl Tarly, and Lady Catelyn.  The wolf eyed him more shrewdly than she had before, which did not bother him in the slightest, except for the briefest look she cast towards the wench afterwards.

The two women appeared to have come to some understanding.  Jaime had been well aware of how Catelyn had hung back the other day to speak to Brienne and he had seen the two walking close together on occasion, while trailing Renly.  However, what the two could have in common was lost to him.  He worried that the wolf was filling the wench's head with tales of Ned Stark's bravery and honor, but Jaime doubted that she lingered long on _how_ he had been rewarded for his loyalty and morals.

Even more disturbing was the notion that they could be discussing him.  Catelyn made it clear there was no compassion for him, which was to be expected from a Stark, but Jaime had just as much loathing for her, something he did not allow himself to feel for the rest of his enemies. Though Jaime had managed to quell any guilt rising from hurting Bran Stark, it had been easier to let remorse become swallowed up in the waves of pure hatred he felt at the Starks for taking and imprisoning Tyrion in the Vale. 

So, to watch this woman warm up to Brienne forced the contents of his breakfast to rush up to his throat. There was little she did not know about his deeds now, but he knew that his actions would sound much worse coming from a Stark than from him and whatever she was conferring with the wench about could have been why Brienne had chosen to avoid him.  He itched to grab her and take her somewhere that they could be alone, like they used to be before she had let her heart choose for her to be closer to Renly.

The sound of Brienne’s name from her king's lips roused Jaime as he realized he had been glaring at her again.  She was completely ignoring him, however, her face flushed a nervous pink as her mouth hung open and she looked at Renly as if he had told her she was to be betrothed to Loras.

"Please, Your Grace, I beg you," she whispered, barely able to form the words and appearing too broken to speak up.  "Let me ride with you."

"Ser Loras will need your skills in the vanguard," Renly said gently. "It’s a great honor to carry the banner, Brienne.  I thought you would be pleased."

"Of course, Your Grace," she replied quickly.  Jaime hated the way the color of her cheeks looked like the skin of a pig's and her plump mouth worked around her large teeth as she tried to gather the courage to continue.  "May I also be granted the honor of dressing you in the morn?"

Loras made a high whine in his throat, beginning to protest, before Renly held up a hand to stop him, and laughed at Brienne.  No one heard the growl that built up in Jaime's chest or saw his lips turn in disgust.

"Of course you may play squire for me," the foolish stag said.  "I shall need to be ready before sunrise."

Brienne clenched her jaw, lips twitching as she fought a smile that would twist her face into a more hideous visage, and bowed gratefully.  Jaime noticed how her blue gaze lit up when Renly said her name and granted her request.  The doe eyed look should have belonged to some young, beautiful maiden, where it could have gone to some use bending men to her whims.  On the ugly face of Brienne of Tarth, the innocence and beauty of that stare did nothing, save for making Jaime force himself to think of Cersei rather than how he wanted to rip Renly apart.

"If you insist on meeting Stannis in battle tomorrow, then I must return to my camp and tell Robb of this," Catelyn said.

"No," Renly replied. "You may go back once we have taken my brother's forces and you can report on my victory. Your son must know how terrible an enemy I can be and how potent an ally I am."

Jaime rolled his eyes at his arrogance. He turned to Brienne, enjoying the light die from her eyes as she frowned.

"But Robb may be able to help-"

"Family deals with family, Lady Catelyn.  I don't need the Young Wolf's aide to cut down a force as small as Stannis's."

Seeing as how the matter was done, Catelyn sighed loudly and nodded.  Everyone, save for the Rainbow Guard, was excused from Renly's tent after that.  Jaime was only able to catch a glimpse of Brienne before she moved to approach Loras, murmuring hurriedly in his ear.  He did not seem pleased by what she was saying and, for a moment, Jaime saw her resolve slip as she cast him a concerned and hurt stare, before turning to stone and continuing to whisper to her Lord Commander.

Jaime quickly moved away from the group of Starks and Baratheon lords, making towards the Lannister tent with his two guards trailing behind.  He entered to find Lord Quenten and Ser Tytos attempting to play a game of cyvasse. Despite being excellent commanders in his army, the two were not so skilled at predicting the more subtle moves of his opponent.  The game was new to Westeros, so Jaime and the other hostages had sparse understanding of the rules, though he recognized immediately how well Tyrion would do at the board game.

Sighing, he took a seat next to Addam, who was only idly watching the two struggle. "To battle, then, is it?" he grumbled without bothering to look at Jaime.

"I don't know how much I would call it a battle.  Renly outnumbers Stannis, but he has no idea how to organize and lead his men."

Addam shrugged. "Doesn't need to. He's got bannermen out the arse for that sort of thing.  From what I've gathered, Loras isn't bad at tactics, either."

"And the knights?"

"Soft, mostly drunk, but still bloodthirsty.  Their numbers may make up for their inexperience."

"Well, for our sake, we best hope so," Jaime snorted.  "We won't last long as Stannis's prisoners."

"We aren't going to fare much better as Renly's," Addam countered.  He turned to finally look at Jaime, his expression tight and anxious.  "This needs to be our chance."

"Agreed. There will probably be a light guard left to watch us.  We can easily over take them and melt away in the commotion." Jaime stood, knowing that planning would be fruitless until they had a better idea of the kind of party that would be left at the camp.  He planned to try to return to his own tent and attempt to eat and rest to be better prepared to take an opportunity if it arose sooner.

"Jaime," Addam called.  He paused, considering his next words.  "The girl..."

"There is no girl," Jaime barked irritably.  "Be ready. I have to get back to my family as soon as possible; they need me."  _I have to go to Cersei before I do something stupid, like try to save a child from her own dreams_.

Jaime left the tent, willing his feet to move towards his own camp, but he found himself strolling back towards Renly's pavilion, searching for blue armor amongst the groups of lingering bannermen and Guard members milling about.  Finally, he found her outside of her new tent, perched on a stool, polishing her sword.  She was still adorned in her gear, but she had cast aside the Rainbow cloak, most likely placing it with reverence on her cot.  But before the sun would rise, she would put it on once more and mount her horse, carrying the sigil of the stag as she rode into battle behind her Lord Commander. 

Regardless of what happened on the field, Jaime could tell that she was rife with nervous energy now. Her large hand moved confidently as she methodically slid the whetstone down her blade, but her boots would not stop twitching slightly and she was worrying her thick lower lip, causing the cracked edges to tear and bleed.  Jaime could not remember looking such an utter mess before going into his first battle, but he had been much younger and more arrogant than Brienne. He had never thought about dying and he had certainly not cared for how others would fare.

“That sword is as sharp as it’s going to get,” he called to her as way of greeting.

Brienne’s head shot up at his voice, hand hovering over her weapon.  She looked down, appearing surprised at what she had been doing, before blushing and moving to sheath her sword.  “You should not be here,” she muttered so that only he could hear, though she fought not to look at him, as had become the custom between them these days.

“You are preparing for your first battle tomorrow, wench,” Jaime replied.  He gritted his teeth to keep rising anger at bay. _This is how she treats me after everything?_ “But I suppose you would rather be with your fellow Guard members than talk to the Kingslayer.”

He turned to leave, cursing himself for ignoring how they had acted towards each other since that hideous cloak had gotten in between them.  But he did not get far before she grunted out for him to wait.  Turning, and smiling callously at how she became his favorite red, he strolled back towards her.

“I cannot sit still,” she said.  “Would you walk with me?”

Jaime swept out his hand, indicating for her to lead the way, and gave a mocking bow as she stepped out.  Seeing him with Brienne, the guards melted back, but not without throwing knowing looks in their direction. They skirted the camp for a while, watching silently as servants and knights busied themselves, the buzzing of tension and anticipation bringing up memories of other battles for Jaime.

"Your height and force will startle most of your enemies," Jaime found himself saying, his voice sounding like his father's when lecturing.  "No one will know that you're a woman, but you're bigger than most men and you look crazed when you swing your blade. You have to make your move in those first moments, though, you can't bide your time like when we spar or in a melee."

He glanced at her, making sure she was listening, truly accepting what he was trying to tell her. She was indeed wrapped in his words, but she also looked surprised and confused, probably wondering, like he was, why he was giving his enemy advice.

"That wretched cloak will draw them to you," he continued.  "They will try to bring down Renly's guard to leave him more vulnerable.  And they will recognize Loras and think you weaker, especially hindered by carrying the banner." He sighed, muttering, "I would think Renly wants you dead if he had any notion of how dangerous it is to bear it."

"It is an honor and trust in my skills," Brienne whispered, the words quavering slightly, betraying her fears.

"Say what you will, but if it comes to it, drop the bloody thing and protect yourself," Jaime snarled.

Not knowing why, but well aware that he should not, Jaime reached out and grabbed Brienne's shoulders, whirling her around to face him, their noses so close he heard the rapid whistle of air escaping her nostrils.  But all that was in his vision were young, innocent blue eyes, haloed by golden lashes. He could not look away from them, captivated by their magnificence, feeding and drowning in the torment and fear that were in them.

Before he could say anything, Brienne panicked at his tight hold and their proximity. "Did you try to kill Bran Stark?"

Silently, Jaime cursed Catelyn.  "Yes."

Standing so near to Brienne, he was awarded with the flicker of emotions crossing her face as she appeared shocked, most likely at his bluntness, disappointed, and angry, probably at herself for befriending him.  "An innocent child..." she whispered, pulling her gaze from its hold of his eyes.

Jaime did not let go of her shoulders, so he found himself hissing in her ear when she turned, his breath swirling the short hairs around her temple.  "An innocent boy who would _innocently_ tell his father what he had seen when he climbed that tower. And then that boy's words would have cost the lives of _three_ children, as well as Cersei’s and my own."

"He may not have told," Brienne cried out, struggling against him and pulling away. "You could have convinced him. He may not have even seen anything."

"I would not risk my family with the chance that he could have spoken."

"You risk them and others every time you continue this!"

Jaime groaned in frustration, scrubbing his palm across his beard, then running his fingers through his hair, only partially noticing the way Brienne's eyes followed his hand. There was no possibility that she wanted to truly understand his love for Cersei, how he would do anything for her, how it had been for her, not for the children that he could occasionally forget were his own.  And Brienne must have known she had no right to demand that he stop loving his sister. She was begging, though, begging for him not to be the man he seemed, but to be the one she was slowly trying to form in her mind, to justify the way they appeared to understand and be drawn to each other.

"Lady Catelyn has a right to know who that man with the dagger was," Brienne demanded coldly.

"How the hells would I know," he spat.  "I shoved that boy out of the window and if I had meant to finish it, I would have done it myself." Through her horror, Jaime saw her accept that. He had, after all, taken it upon himself to kill a king.  He would have no qualms killing a child with his own hands as well, or so she would think.

"Tyrion-"

"Did not do it either. My brother is far too crafty to get caught."

Brienne clenched her jaw, her eyes turning distant as she became distracted by the prospect of the mysterious assassin.  Jaime did not want to know how the situation had been presented to her by Catelyn and, in this instance, he doubted it would have been a softer blow coming from him. But at least now she had heard him admit his reasons, weak though they would seem to her.  And from the look in her eyes, she believed that he had not sent someone to finish off the boy.  He only hoped that she did not dwell long to realize it still had to have been a member of their retinue that tried to kill Bran Stark.

Becoming impatient, and desperate, Jaime reached up and snatched her chin, cupping it tightly so that he could move her head to look at him again.  He leaned in so that their faces were close once more and she could watch every expression he allowed to show.  "I have done monstrous things for those I love, Brienne. But I am not walking with you so that you can judge every one of them." Still held firmly in his hand, Brienne nodded her head, her mouth falling open slightly, drawing his attention to her pink tongue peeking out and the heat from her breath washing over his skin. "You need to focus on staying alive tomorrow.  Promise me you won't do anything foolish."

"My duty is to protect the king," she whispered.  "I will live so that I may return to fulfill that vow."

For the first time, Jaime was relieved by her stubborn loyalty, even though she would fight to live for someone who did not deserve her.  Still, if she survived this battle, there would be plenty more that she may not live through, especially under the Baratheon sigil.  _And then where would she be if she lived to see Renly fall? Would she be sent home, made a hostage, beheaded? What future would the Maid of Tarth have even if she lived to see tomorrow's sun set?_ And why did the thought cause Jaime's throat to go dry? He was planning on not even being there for her return, so why seek her out when he would not know her fate?

"Ser..." Brienne hesitated, making him release her chin.  "Stannis could breach the camp and attack who remains..." She blushed, using her freedom from his grasp to look away again.

Jaime realized she was expressing concern for him, trapped in the camp as she expected him to be. "I'll be fine. You should have more faith in your fellow bannermen's skills, wench."

"I do, but the priestess that is with Stannis..." She trailed off again, frowning in her uncertainty.  "I asked of the Lord Commander to double your guard during the battle and he has agreed to make sure that you are well protected."

Jaime swore loudly, startling her.  _There goes any chance of escape_.

As if sensing his thoughts, Brienne stared at him disapprovingly.  "When King Renly decides that he should exchange you for Lady Catelyn's daughters, you will agree, won't you?"

"Of course. I'm more than eager to return home…and,” he sighed.  “I will do my best to ensure that the Stark children are sent on their way back to Riverrun." That seemed to ease her, though he was not sure which part she was apprehensive about.  He paused, watching her shoulders relax and a tight smile making her freckles bunch together. "Is this because you’re looking forward to seeing me on the battlefield, wench?"

Brienne rolled her sapphire orbs, for a moment falling back into the simplicity and comfort of their banter. “Only if it would convince you once and for all that I was the better fighter."

"I wouldn't have long to dwell on it as, in that case, I would be dead," Jaime laughed. He stopped when the weight of his words hit him.  Brienne, whose smile had been becoming more genuine, frowned as well.  "What would you do when we meet next, Brienne?" _What would I do?_

"Ser Jaime, I-" the look of pain twisted her large mouth and scrunched up her broken nose, causing Jaime to grimace at her ugliness.

"I suppose neither of us wants to dwell on that," Jaime hastily continued and she nodded her head, eagerly agreeing.  "And Renly will be defeated well before he meets Lannister forces."

Brienne puffed out a soft snort and turned back so that they could continue walking the camp. They spoke little, but both seemed content in finding a companionable silence again. They walked closer than they had before, though, and Jaime found his hand brushing against her thigh occasionally. All he felt on his knuckles was a bit of leather and the cold sting of armor, but Brienne did not pull away when they heard the soft hiss of flesh stroking metal.  Her own hands rested on her sword belt, which caused her exposed elbow to poke him in the side, startling chuckles out of both of them. But they did not move apart.

Reluctantly, Jaime was deposited outside of his own tent, with his guards materializing at the entrance. As had been the more frustrating game they played over the past weeks, Brienne placed a distance between them and refused to look at him as she bid him good evening.  He knew she would retire early so that she could wake before sunrise and skip off to Renly's tent to steal touches before battle. It was probably wise of her to avoid looking at Jaime's face, as he could not force down the scowl that sprouted on his mouth.

Once settled in his bed, Jaime tried to sleep as well.  As he had done many nights before battle, he cleared his mind of everything save the precious recollections from his past that tended to calm him. He finally drifted off when he found a memory of years ago when he and Cersei had run off to whisper to each other in the gardens of Casterly Rock.  She was supposed to leave a few days later to wed Robert Baratheon, but the way that she had stolen every one of his free moments to remind him of her loyalty had him hardly fretting about the future.  On that particular afternoon, Cersei had curled herself around him, murmuring sweet words into his hair as she encouraged him to bury his face between her soft breasts.  Inhaling her scent and hearing her whispers of comfort had lulled him into a rare moment of peace, despite their upcoming separation.

"You don't have to go, you know," he had whispered into her silky skin.

"Of course I do," she laughed.  "But it doesn't mean I can’t still have you."

"I know. I just don't see why we can't truly be together."

"One day, brother. For now, I may belong to another but my heart will always be yours."

"And mine is yours." Jaime held her tightly and basked in her delicate fingers running through his hair and down his back.  He brushed his jaw across her chest as he began to look up, saying to her, "I don't want you to leave."

Deep blue eyes stared down at him, shaded by straw colored hair that dusted over harsh freckles against a dark red, blushing skin.  Brienne pulled her large lips back to expose her crooked teeth in a large grin. "I'll come back to you, Jaime," she promised.

The sight of her holding him lovingly jolted Jaime awake.  He panted, gripping his pillow as if he was still returning her warm embrace, and trying to shake away the lasting image of sweet, innocent eyes looking at him like he was her world.

"Seven hells," he groaned out loud, throwing the furs off of himself and setting about to get dressed.

The sun was still dipped below the horizon and, judging by the glow of only a few fires dancing across his tent fabric, Jaime figured the camp was only just awakening. As he pulled on a lined jerkin over his wool tunic, he could make out the scrape of swords being honed and the dull whine of armor being lightly hammered out, sounds of an army making ready for the coming battle, knights lost in known tasks, trying vainly to ignore the possibility of never returning.

He attempted to simply stroll the camp, to note those that were preparing to leave and how many were supposed to stay.  He attempted to count the number of horses that were not being bridled and any swords that could be near at hand.  Still, he found his lazy wandering bringing him closer to Renly’s pavilion, where he could see a single soft light emanating from the silks.

Sighing and throwing back a glance to the guards that had trailed him as he left his tent, Jaime strode purposefully forward.  He nodded to Emmon Cuy and Robar Royce, who were standing beside the entrance, and who gave him twin glares as he threw back the flap.

The sight inside the tent almost made Jaime want to walk back out and forget about his insanity.  Renly was standing before a well polished glass that reflected his image from his boots to his crowned head.  He was absorbed in the view of himself, light eyes wandering over his form, barely acknowledging that Brienne was diligently and lovingly strapping on his armor. Jaime cringed as he followed her hands, pulling on the leather belt of a rerebrace and pausing to squeeze Renly’s thin arm to check for its security.

“Jaime,” Renly greeted, finding him in the mirror.

Even though Brienne was already completely armored and ready for battle, she lightly jumped away from Renly and turned to him with her mouth hanging ajar. Before she grew too nervous looking at him, she threw a confused and condemning glance his way and then, using the pretense of grabbing another piece of armor, sought somewhere else to gaze. Renly was ignorant of the quick exchange and he simply held his arm out so that Brienne could reach around his chest and secure a shoulder pad to his jerkin.

“Come to see me off?” Renly asked.

“Something like that,” Jaime muttered, still watching Brienne practically press her entire body against her king.  He seated himself next to the single light that hung above a table covered in maps. Idly, he played with the edges of parchment, already knowing with a glance where Renly planned to place his forces. His plan of attack was supercilious and hasty, wasting the mass of excitement and bloodlust that would be spurring his men upon first meeting Stannis’s army by shoving most of the party towards the sides to try to enclose the enemy.  By the time the Baratheon army would be ready to strike, knights would have had the opportunity to dwell on their impending fates and fear would have seeped into churning muscles, turning them stiff and cold. It had probably saved countless lives that Renly had not tried his hand at warfare before, but there was little that would spare them now.  

From his view, Jaime was able to take in Brienne and Renly, the light hitting their heads and shoulders and dipping their legs into soft shadows, which were being chased away with the first rays of sunrise slithering over the horizon and sneaking into the bottom of the tent.

“With Stannis’s forces under my banner, the Lannisters will be no match,” Renly said.

Jaime grunted noncommittally, glaring hard as Brienne ran a single hand from Renly’s waist up his flat chest, bringing a breastplate with the other. Her lips were parted slightly, ribs rising rapidly as her breathing traipsed over her booming heart and made her take in tiny gasps of air.  She was so close to Renly’s neck that Jaime could see the wisps of black curls on his nape stir from the air escaping her mouth as she looked over his shoulder and strapped the armor to his upper body.

“Robb will surely want to head towards King’s Landing after. Lady Catelyn must see the enormity of our army, then, and forget her plea for your exchange. We will take the throne and return her daughters without losing our most valuable hostage. It will be easy, won’t it, Lady Brienne?”

The clear burn of despair that deadened the light in her blue seas finally forced Jaime to tear himself from watching her worship Renly’s body. She murmured a soft “Yes, My King”, but Jaime was pained to hear the note of defeat that hissed through her words. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched her withdraw shaking hands from Renly and step away to take his sword belt that was slung over the chair on the other side of the table. Now it was Jaime that refused to meet the heat of her gaze as she silently pleaded for him to look at her as she approached.

The difficult attempt of keeping turned away from the wench caused Jaime to notice that while the faint glimmer of morning had been making its way into the pavilion, a heavy shadow was following close behind. It looked at first as if a tall form was standing against a bright light that threw its shadow far before it and turned it darker than the night.  But as the shadow pervaded further along the opulent rushes, it began slithering and darting towards the far corner where Renly was still surveying himself in the glass.

“Ser Loras believes that if we pin Stannis against the walls of Storm’s End, we may be able to sneak behind him and begin cutting through from the rear as well.”

Brienne bent to take the heavy and ornate swordbelt of the king. She hefted it with a frown, knowing as well as Jaime, that the weight from the stones and metals would be a hindrance, especially mounted.  She gripped the hilt, layered in gold and encrusted in gems of all colors, as vibrant, useless, and gaudy as Renly’s Rainbow Guard.  Pulling hard, Brienne managed to reveal surprisingly fine steel, light to reduce the weight from the embellishments, and honed sharply enough that Jaime’s blood resonated with the hum of the blade being released. He had no doubt that Brienne had also spent part of the previous evening sharpening Renly’s sword as diligently as she had done her own.

“If we can split the army down the middle, we should have my brother surrender by sunset, with little bloodshed, I hope.  It wouldn’t do to lose most of what will soon be my own men.”

The blade shone brilliantly, even with only the light of dawn and the single lamp above Jaime and Brienne.  But, as it caught the reflection of the rest of the tent, Jaime saw the darkness that consumed the light. He stood, spinning just as the shadow that had been crawling on the ground lifted up behind Renly, forming into a figure both strange and familiar.

“Wench,” he whispered urgently, still staring at the apparition approaching the stag.

She looked first to him, drawn by the panic in his voice, before she followed his gaze to the shadow. Gasping, she lunged towards Renly, calling out to him in warning.  But the darkness had already moved to strike, bringing up a hand curled around the silhouette of a dagger.

Watching as Brienne tried to move to protect Renly, Jaime reacted without thought. He yelled her name and threw himself at her, bringing both of them roughly down to the rushes just as the shadow ran the blade across the king’s throat.

Rich, red blood blossomed from below Renly’s chin, staining the mirror he stood before and raining small droplets on where Jaime had Brienne pinned. Without waiting for Renly’s body to slump to the floor, the shadow whirled to face the two spectators. Though Brienne was all cold and sharp armor in Jaime’s arms, he managed to pull her further beneath him, protecting her from the wrath of the approaching form.  As it moved away from Renly and Brienne was able to get a view of where her king was bleeding, the fluid pumping down his neck, only to be drunk by thirsty woolen rushes that spread out crimson fingers from where he laid, she screamed. 

The sound tore through the air, bringing forth the utter agony that was filling and consuming the young maiden still struggling beneath him. It slowed every heartbeat that Jaime fought for and silenced the haze of camp sounds from outside the tent, drowning the world in loss and death.  But while the scream ripped the breath from Jaime’s struggling lungs, it pierced the hungry darkness and broke it apart into fragments of smoke and trickling sunlight.

Brienne scrambled forwards, pulling herself on hands and knees until she could support Renly’s head, not caring that she dipped her hands into his blood, smearing it across his cheeks and through his raven locks as she rocked him in her lap and sobbed.  She shrieked and gasped and cried until Jaime was sure she was going to turn her stomach over and lose her breakfast.

Fearing that she would raise the entire camp, Jaime quickly crawled over to her and tried to yank her from the body.  She resisted and, being in mail, she easily slipped from his grasp and clung tighter to Renly.  His blood beaded on her oiled breastplate, leaving a trail of dark red tears against the soft blue tint of metal.

Jaime knew he should leave her to her grief and take the chance to sneak off and grab the other hostages.  If she put up a fight and tried to plead her case to the bannermen, they might think that he had acted alone and that his disappearance proved his guilt. But their time spent together and her sole presence in the tent would implicate her as well. There was no doubt in his mind that she would be charged with her king’s death.  But if she argued well enough, Jaime may be able to flee the camp before they took her head.

“Brienne,” Jaime tried again to extract her, tugging at her arms, struggling to loosen her grip.  “Brienne.” He finally managed to pry one of her arms free and pulled it behind him, wrapping it about his waist as he reached for her other hand.  “Brienne.” He had to release each one of her fingers from Renly’s hair, but he was eventually rewarded with having control of both of her limbs.

As her king’s head flopped down onto her knees and slid from her legs, she finally looked at Jaime. Tears were streaming down her freckled cheeks and a clear fluid was dripping from her nose as she sniffled to keep it from running into her mouth, which she was working like a fish. “Brienne.” She looked at him as if she could not understand who he was or how easily he spoke her name. Not knowing what else to do, but aware that there was precious time before they were found, Jaime tried to yank her into his chest, to pull her into his embrace, but she still tried to wrench her arms away and cast uncertain glances back at the body.

_She does not want your solace, Kingslayer.  She has watched her king die as you once did.  And she has just seen her love murdered.  She wants nothing to do with you._

“Brienne,” he begged, ignoring the reason in his head.  Just as he was about to give up and rise, to make a dash to duck under the other side of the tent, she was suddenly buried in his chest, her arms squeezing his waist and her tears and saliva wetting his jerkin. Her entire body shook with her sobs, but Jaime still kept her tight against him, despite the pain of her armor digging into his flesh.  He stroked her hair and searched out the gaps in her mail where he could press his warmth against hers, all the while murmuring her name as she pulled her legs towards her chest, seating herself more fully between his legs.

Jaime hardly knew how to offer comfort to anyone, but he knew even less how to provide Brienne with what she needed, be it as a young, stupid, ugly maiden or a fierce, honorable knight.  But death was something he was familiar with, whether it was found by the plunge of an enemy’s sword on the battlefield or in the last sigh in the birthing bed or from the flames ignited by a king’s madness.  Death, and the fear of it, illuminated in the eyes of many he met, was what he knew and escaping it was his own private battle. All he could do was hold Brienne and wait, letting her wrap up the part of her that loved too much and lost, stuffing it away so that she could focus on the realization that her own heart was still beating, as did Jaime’s, and they had to move to keep it that way.

That was how they were found, moments later, with the body of Renly Baratheon beside them while Brienne, stained with his blood, sat cradled in Jaime’s arms. He groaned as he looked up to find Ser Robar Royce taking in the scene and coming to the most obvious conclusion.

Turning to call out to any that could hear his cry, he hollered, “The Kingslayer’s Whore has murdered the king!”


	10. The Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone that is continuing to read and especially to those who take the time to leave wonderful comments. This chapter marks another plot shift and so I'm nervous about how it will be received. But it's all part of the plan! Enjoy!
> 
> I had a chance to go back to my first story that I wrote, before I had the lovely Coraleeveritas as my beta, and it was surprising how much my style has changed since then. I owe all of this to the patience and teachings of Coralee. She has taught me to let go and have more emotion and prose in my writing, to enjoy the feelings. I appreciate everything that she does for me, including being a constant source of friendship, and I just cannot thank her enough to nurturing me to be the writer that I am today. Head, Hands, Heart!
> 
> Thank you also to Sandwichesyumyum! She not only keeps me grounded in fandom, but also in life. I'm so grateful for all of the support she provides for this story and for all of the love she gives this undeserving writer. Thank you, my friend!

He was dead.  Brienne had watched, numbed and trapped, as her king, her life, her duty, had bled out before her. With the light gone from his tender blue eyes, His Grace finally looked up at her from where he had fallen from her lap, his gaze boring into her, mouth opened in a final rictus of surprise and fear.  She shivered, still wracked by small tremors from her sobbing, muscles shifting between tension and looseness too quickly for her to find the strength to move. 

Jaime held her tightly.  There was no softness in his grip, no comfort in the way he pressed himself to her, demanded the touch of what little she had exposed through her armor. She had never been a tender maiden who should be embraced as if she was something fragile and precious and in need of protection.  Truly, she was nothing now, but Jaime clung to her to ground her, to keep her from crawling back to her king, to move her away from the sword lying on the ground, calling for blood and justice.  And, weak as she was, she let the Kingslayer hold her.  She welcomed and needed it, hating herself even more for the way her heart released just enough for her to breathe when he began running his stiff fingers over her scalp. 

She hardly felt his touch, though.  She saw nothing but King Renly's cold stare and only heard her own screams crashing and reverberating inside of her head.  So, when Jaime let her go suddenly and reached for the king's sword, she did nothing to stop him.  Vaguely, she was aware of movement from the slide of the carpets beneath where she sat hunched over her knees and she thought that through the echo of her cries, she could make out the sharp twang of steel and the shouts of men. 

When Jaime returned to her, he did not sit again, but gripped her shoulders and tried to yank her to her feet.  She pulled away, fighting to look back for King Renly, even while Jaime was dragging her up to face him.  Finally, though, Brienne took in the rest of the tent.  Jaime was staring down at her, green eyes blazing in what she could tell was concern, but he also appeared distracted, turning to glance at the entrance. It was then that she noticed two bodies lying on the ground, their blood rushing forward to join their king's in the rushes. 

With a gasp, her surroundings came rushing in and Brienne broke away from Jaime, noticing that he was still holding King Renly’s sword and that it was now dripping red.  She forced herself to look back at the carnage that was decorating the entrance to His Grace’s pavilion. Ser Emmon Cuy was slumped against the table, pieces of wet and stained parchments scattered around him. At first, Brienne could not find the killing blow, but then she saw the blood coursing from a small sliver in his side, where his back and chest plates joined poorly.  It was a calculated attack, but one that would have killed Ser Emmon instantly. 

The other form took Brienne a moment to recognize since she had to search for his missing head.  It had rolled away from them towards the other corner of the tent, but she could still make out the familiar, ruggedly handsome features of Ser Robar Royce. His face was twisted in a horrific grimace that she had never seen on a man before, let alone the one that she had watched laughingly juggle daggers not days earlier. 

“Wench,” Jaime snapped irritably.  She looked up at him as he stood, taking another nervous glance back. He was not armored, but did not appear injured from cutting down her fellow members of the Rainbow Guard, perhaps since he had been granted the advantage of surprise. Still, his large chest rose heavily from the exertion and he could not stop running his empty hand through his golden curls, tousling them so they fell wildly around his ears, staining strands with the blood on his hands.  Brienne had seen his emerald eyes ignite with a deep fire when they spared, but she had never seen just how hotly it burned after a kill.  In her vulnerable state, huddled at his feet and too tired to draw her sword, she became wary of the emerging lion. 

“You killed them,” she rasped, finding her voice still thick with sobs. 

“Damn it, they were coming at us,” Jaime hissed back.  “We have to get out of here _now_. They were able to raise the alarm.” 

“What?” Brienne bolted up, ignoring how her knees tried to buckle beneath the weight of her armor and her loss.  “You cannot run!" 

“ _We_ are running, wench! Royce hollered that you murdered Renly and anyone who comes in will find us alone with the body.” 

“The shadow…” 

“No one is going to believe a specter killed Renly! They are going to accuse the ones that _were seen_ in the tent!” 

“Oh, gods,” Brienne sighed as she realized the truth of his words. 

They heard the pounding of booted feet coming towards the pavilion and Brienne felt rooted to the spot, unsure of how she was going to explain the scene, trying to convince herself that their innocence would spare them. But, just as she caught a glimpse of Ser Loras barreling down on them, mad with panic, Jaime grabbed her hand and pulled her to the opposite wall of silk from the entrance. He crouched down, taking a hold of the fabric pooling along the grass, and lifted the side high enough that Brienne could crawl underneath.  She struggled to protest andmake her way back inside, but Jaime used his body and the weight of the sword he still carried to shove her outside, rolling out immediately after her.  

The camp was still rising and luckily there had been few knights around to hear Brienne’s screams and Ser Royce’s alarm.  But, as the light from the sun was began to peek over the soft hills of the terrain, she could make out fires being started and shaded figures moving about, presumably preparing for battle.  The waning darkness would offer them immediate protection, but only once they were away from the light in the king’s pavilion. Even with Jaime so close that their arms were pressed together, she could only see the gleam from his emerald eyes darting about, as he surveyed the area, and the pale flash of his teeth as he sucked in his lips and released them with sharp exhales.  

As Jaime rose to attempt to slip through the tents, a white, ethereal mist swirled enticingly and coiled around his legs, kicking up greater plumes as he moved back to try to drag her along.  She stopped him with a gentle hand placed over the crook of his elbow. Squatting next to her, their knees moistened by the morning dew in the grass, he looked at her questioningly, beseeching her to move while searching her gaze.  She nodded, hoping that he would understand that she would go, but she had to know first.  She had to witness Ser Loras’s loss.  Time was skipping and pacing along and she felt sure that it would slow so that she could share her mourning, even if just for a moment. 

The guttural moan that carried through the tent sounded nothing like Brienne’s high cry of dismay, but it turned animalistic, reminding her of the screams of frightened horses, as Ser Loras took in the sight. It drowned out the other voices, which Brienne could neither discern nor understand, but she heard the disquiet and hysteria of their tones. 

“Robar Royce shouted that it was Brienne of Tarth that slew the king,” came Randyl Tarly’s booming voice. 

Jaime became apprehensive once again and endeavored to pull Brienne along, but she tightened her hold on him, despite her own trepidations about the presence of the bannerman that hated her most. 

A roar rose from the inside, startling them both as they breathed heavily, but inaudibly, staring at each other with wide eyes, green boring into blue. Together, they recognized the hiss of a sword being unsheathed before hearing the pandemonium of cries and pleas melting into the sound of clashing steel.  Brienne was horrified to realize the moment that one of the bannermen had been run through with a blade was a sound now familiar to her.  She was equally disturbed that she felt relieved when his body thunked on the soft grass outside the tent, feeding his blood to the wet earth rather than offering another sacrifice to the King’s rugs. 

For an eternity, there was silence within the tent, enveloping Brienne and Jaime. Finally, one of the lords hesitantly spoke up, “The Kingslayer most likely put her up to it,” he suggested. 

“No!” Ser Loras barked.  “Only one woman controls Jaime Lannister.  The beast was in love with King Renly and most likely fell for the Kingslayer as well.” 

“She must have been working with Stannis,” Tarly pressed.  “I saw her whisper with the red witch during the parley.” 

There were gasps and shocked murmurs at the declaration.  Brienne caught the sound of Ser Loras growling and upending the table and chairs that were in the room. 

“I will kill everyone involved and all those who get in my way,” he hollered. “Bring me the Maid of Tarth!” 

Brienne’s heart sank as her sentence was affirmed over the body of her king. She turned to Jaime and found him watching her again.  With yet another tug, she allowed him to drag her away from the scene.  But, as they crouched low to the ground and moved off, time starting to stumble rapidly forward again, making up for the moments that had been stolen, they heard Randyl Tarly’s final blow. 

“I’ve also seen her in heated, secretive discussions with Lady Stark. She could have stolen the Kingslayer in an attempt to trade him for the Stark daughters, by the lady’s command...” 

“Then bring me Catelyn Stark as well,” Ser Loras hissed. 

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered from where she was following him, weaving through tents and avoiding anyone they came across.

“I heard, wench,” came his cold reply.  He did not look back at her and she could not read his tone. He was going too fast, making too much distance from where her mind and heart were still clawing at the carpets, trying to make it back to her king, to when there was only light and darkness, not this new world thrown in soft shadows. 

“We have to help Lady Catelyn.  She is innocent!” 

“So are we,” Jaime replied irritably.  “We’re going to get my men and grab some horses and get out of here while the camp is still in disarray.  We won’t survive if we stop to convince Catelyn Stark to come with us.” 

Brienne paused, squatting behind a stand of tents where even her large form could hide in the gloom, willing time to stop again so that she could collect herself and her thoughts.  Instead, from her spot, she watched as the camp became a churned up ant’s nest of activity. Upon the sound of steel and the cries of Ser Loras and the bannermen that joined him at the king’s tent, a few had begun to scurry, drawn out of their holes by the noises of unrest. As the word was spread through whispers and frightened glances, the rest of the nest exploded in a flurry of chaos, knights and servants scrambling over each other in a haste to find members of their prospective houses as the camp was rent apart, splintered back into the pieces that had made a temporary whole. 

The turmoil would hide her and Jaime’s flight from the camp, but the sight of all of the work King Renly had done to unite these men, falling apart, set a stone in her stomach that weighted down her feet.  She needed to run before she was swept up and lost amidst the panic, but which way should she go? If she headed left, she would come across the pavilion that housed Jaime’s knights and if she were to go right, she would find Lady Catelyn’s own camp.  The Starks were in danger too and their alliance to the Baratheons, as well as Brienne’s position in the Rainbow Guard, was cut the moment that King Renly was slain. Brienne had nowhere to go and certainly had no intentions of giving her sword to the Lannisters, regardless of the strange relationship that had sprouted between herself and the Kingslayer. If they both escaped this camp, that truce would end the moment that they fled, in opposite directions. 

Lady Catelyn had proven herself a smart and honor bound woman, whose son fought for a valiant cause of avenging and reuniting his torn family. Though Brienne understood that offering her services to the Starks could put Tarth at risk, being surrounded by keeps and families that were sworn to Stannis or King Renly, she could not bring herself to turn against His Grace and bend the knee to his brother. The king had seen fit to ally himself with the Starks and Brienne wanted to follow his wishes and help them in their fight.  She could not allow Lady Catelyn to be harmed by those that she and her son had trusted, especially not for something that Brienne felt responsible for.  The sudden urgency to protect the Stark family helped to quell the rising need in Brienne’s heart to find a corner and mourn for King Renly once more.  With a mission in her mind, she found it easier to silence the anxious maiden inside and push her pain away.  For now. 

As Brienne huddled in the darkness, gnawing at her lip as she strived to decide which way to continue, options clouded by the hammering of her heart, Jaime joined her, his face hovering before her.  He would not understand her sense of obligation concerning Lady Catelyn and, even if he did, he would do nothing to help an enemy.  She did not fault him in that since she had been garnering the same thoughts about his own family.  But he was looking at her as he had been doing for weeks now, the intensity swallowing up any concerns of duty and war, his gaze, as always, slowing down her thoughts and time itself.  He was nothing in that moment besides rage and violence, his throat bobbing as he swallowed venomous words and the muscles in his hands twitching while he clutched King Renly’s soiled sword, aching for another chance to wield it. 

“I must save her,” Brienne persisted. 

An odd rumble started in Jaime’s chest as he rose slightly, forcing her to look up to him for a change, though she could not see his face through the haze, and making her shrink back as his sword came into view, still stained with blood.  “You really are just an ugly, stupid child, aren’t you?” 

Words, not even spoken in his deep snarl, could ever harm her enough to make her change her mind.  “I’m going to try to get to Lady Catelyn before anyone else can take her.” 

“At some point, you’ll learn that a brave death is worth little if it’s an early death, wench,” he snapped at her. 

“My hope is not to die, Ser, but to get Lady Catelyn to safety.” 

“And then you will follow her like a lost puppy back to the North.” He was the Kingslayer again and the ease in which he slipped between his personalities offered a harsh reminder to Brienne that there was little lie in the facets that he turned to confront the world.  It would make their parting much simpler for her. 

“I certainly have no intention of trailing you to your family.” 

“I don’t want you with me.” 

As he spoke down to her, she had no idea why she had been hesitating, why going left had ever crossed her mind.  Her legs pulled her up without even a groan of protest and her feet glided effortlessly as she started towards Catelyn Stark’s tents, ignoring how her heart completely stopped, turning her blood sluggish and her steps heavy. 

Just as she was about to move away from the protective cover of their hiding spot, tensing her neck to keep herself from looking back, Jaime’s arm shot out, pulling her back towards him.  She was in his arms again, his hands pressed into her back plating, the sword held out awkwardly away from them so that neither was skewered by the fine tip. It was a strange embrace and now that Brienne was not numbed by loss, she realized how empty it felt only experiencing the pressure of Jaime against her, lacking his warmth and the feel of his muscles sliding underneath his clothes as he moved about. 

She knew there was little time left for them, but she wanted to feel him. She wanted to remember this moment because it was the last that she would share with Jaime.  He would go back to his family and don the armor of the Kingsguard and fall back into bed with his sister again.  He would be the lion, the golden Lannister, the Kingslayer, the oathbreaker.  She foolishly wanted one last time to hope that matters could be different. But they could not and despite what she wanted, she would not try to stop him from returning to King’s Landing and she would go nowhere until Catelyn Stark was kept safe. 

Pressing his forehead to hers, Jaime’s breath caressed her nose and cheeks, sending blood rushing up to her face.  He sighed, moving a hand to run his knuckles underneath her jaw, following the line of her strong chin. 

“When you take Catelyn home, try to fall into the good graces of the Blackfish. He’s a good knight and I don’t doubt he’ll see your worth…I will leave two horses tethered to the west side of the camp,” he murmured, voice turning regretful and seductive to her wanting ears. “There’s a stand of trees that would have made an excellent sparring spot for us.” 

“I’ll know it,” she whispered back.  Steeling her courage, she brought gauntleted fingers to trail along his exposed collar. She could not feel the heat of him, but she was shocked to see the goose pimples that sprouted from where she had touched him and spread to skin that was hidden by his jerkin. He groaned when she lost some of her daring and rested her glove demurely on his heaving chest, feeling the way his own heart beat madly before crawling along.  “When you return to King’s Landing, if you come across Lady Sansa or Lady Arya-“ 

“I swear to you, Brienne, I will do what is within my power to send them back to their family.  But you should resolve yourself and your Lady Stark to the realization that there is little I _can_ do, especially when it comes to the plans of Tywin Lannister.” 

“Yes.”

“Hm,” Jaime chuckled.  He twisted his forehead, sliding against hers so that his lips shifted away from her own. Slowly, so slowly that Brienne could not tell if she was moving or he was.  So calmly, as if they had all the time they could ever want, he pressed his mouth to her cheek and pulled it down towards her lips, his skin capering across her freckles as he allowed the lightest pressure to keep them touching. “I will terribly miss seeing the confused and angry expression on the Starks faces when they realize that the vilest man in Westeros heroically plucked their family from the claws of the lion.” 

Brienne wanted to turn her jaw just the slightest, meeting where he hovered dangerously near to her mouth, but they both knew that she would never think to steal anything from anyone, let alone falling into a kiss with the Kingslayer. It was probably the only reason why he allowed himself to be so close to a woman that was not his sister. That thought, coupled with the impossibility that she could ever be considered to inspire the same passion and loyalty in a man, was guarding them both from doing something unforgivable. Jaime could even wrap her up in his strong arms, like she was a tiny maiden, and kiss her thoroughly and still it would never be a betrayal to his love.  It would mean nothing.  And because it would mean nothing, Brienne simply stood there and breathed in his sweat and his breath, feeling the moisture of the lips he had licked before running them across her face and playing with her skin.     

“I suppose I will have to take my satisfaction in having my father wonder how two little girls slipped through his grasp, never thinking that his son would gather enough honor or courage to do what must be done. But a Lannister pays his debts, after all.” 

“I know you will do what is right, Ser,” Brienne replied, feeling her breath fold back towards her after it brushed across Jaime’s chin and mouth. She bore the slightest tremor run through his chest at her soft words. 

“Do you know that?” He sneered.  “You shouldn’t.” 

The declaration broke the moment and time resumed once more. They both pushed away, cold air and the sounds of the camp rushing into the wide space between their bodies. Brienne heard yelling, though it was distant, and the clash of swords and scream of horses.  Her heart was pumping again and now it was coupled with adrenaline, a welcome high as it swallowed up the elation from Jaime’s caress.

 “We need to go,” Jaime said.  “This turmoil won’t last much longer, though it sounds like Loras is raising quite a distraction all on his own.” He jerked his defined nose in the direction of where they had fled, a dangerous grin starting to pull at the lips that had just been burning Brienne’s pale skin.  “Remember what I said about a hasty death, wench.” 

Brienne blushed, but still managed to roll her eyes, “Goodbye, Ser Jaime.” 

“Perhaps you should call me Kingslayer again, for the sake of your reputation.” 

“If you prefer… and I prefer that you call me Brienne.” 

“Not happening.” With one final infuriating smirk, he crouched low and snuck between the tents to their left.  He did not look back at her, but Brienne watched his legs pump, sending him quickly away from her, his back bent low and King’s Renly’s sword out in front of him as he ducked along unnoticed.  She did not turn away until she could no longer spot his golden locks catching in the sunrise, ignoring the demand to run and flee and fight just for a moment longer. 

Tossing aside the flash of an urge to trail after him, Brienne unsheathed her sword, finding solace and calm at the sing of her metal gliding from the oiled sheath.  She took a deep breath, digging her palms into the hilt until she could feel sharp pinches through her gloves, and moved off to her right.  Bowing slightly, she tried to keep herself hidden amongst the throng of servants, camp followers, lords and knights that were starting to be roused by the news of their king's murder.  

The warning of the red priestess scurried across her mind as she dodged around a squire that was laden down with fine goblets and plates, a gold necklace peeking out from one of his pockets.  The head of the snake had been severed and the body now writhed about, squirming and bleeding out, dancing around as if pulled by strings.  King Renly was dead and, with the swipe of a blade, Stannis had displayed the loyalty and worth of the names his brother had gathered to him like precious gems strewn across a table.  With him gone, there was no reason for anyone to stay. And so, many left, besides the few that would rally to Ser Loras and Highgarden.  No one was particularly looking about or appeared to be searching, leaving Brienne to believe that few had actually been able to be organized to find His Grace's killers.  Or, she feared, there were fewer suspects that had yet to be caught.

When she came upon groups that were scurrying about, rushing to collect their belongings and flee, she picked up her pace, blending in to the panic of the crowd. But if she was left exposed or amongst those that were not hastening about, usually conversing in tight, hushed groups, she had to slow her steps, lest someone notice her sprinting through the camp. The turmoil of trying to appear unhurried and calm sent her mind screaming, commanding that she find Lady Catelyn before it was too late and to run from the shock and pain, from where all of her fantasies had seeped their life back into the earth. 

Finally, she was able to locate and sneak around the Stark pavilion, silently grateful that no one tried to stop her, forcing her to cut them down in their mission to bring her to justice.  She slipped inside the tent, casting about for intruders or any of the wolf bannermen. Instead, she tripped over a body strewn across the entrance and found two more further inside. All of them wore the colors and sigil of house Stark, but none of them were Lady Catelyn. 

Sparing little time searching the tent, but well aware that there had been a mighty, bloody struggle, she threw back the flap and began circling the perimeter, hoping to come across a group escorting the lady, which would most likely be heading back towards King Renly's pavilion and Ser Loras. 

When her circuit finally brought her to the limits of the camp, she caught the twirl of heavy gray skirts flying towards a stand of trees that sprayed out from a line of elms which ran along an outcropping in the distance. Brienne hurried towards the woman. If it was Lady Catelyn, it would be easy to use the cover provided by thetrees to hide from the view of the camp, before they were far enough away to flee across the open landscape and head back towards King Robb. 

As she neared, Brienne saw that the woman had long curls of deep auburn hair that swirled about her shoulders and tumbled down her fur cloak as she ran. Quickly sheathing her sword so as not to frighten the lady, Brienne soundlessly ran her down and reached out to snatch a flailing arm while covering the woman's mouth with her other hand. As her movements brought the woman's head to her shoulder, Brienne caught wild, pale blue eyes staring up at her and she sighed in relief at recognizing Lady Catelyn, who slumped in her grasp upon seeing her. 

Brienne had to carry her the rest of the way to the trees, worriedly watching her, afraid she would faint or cry or scream.  Though Lady Catelyn looked on the verge of them all, she resolutely still tried to help Brienne pull herself to cover.  Once hidden behind the smooth, thick base of an elm, they both slumped to the cold, sodden earth, Brienne's form looming over the smaller lady in an effort to shield her in case they were discovered. 

"Brienne," Lady Catelyn gasped, breathing her name with fear and relief. "Are you hurt?" She brought up lithe fingers to pinch and prod the plates of Brienne's armor, watching the young maiden's face for signs of pain. 

It took a startled moment for Brienne to realize that the vulnerable and much older lady was concerned for her safety, maternal instinct shining out from her eyes. "No, my lady, but I should be asking you the same question." 

"I escaped unscathed," she sighed, dropping her hands to her skirts and peering around the tree.  "Knights burst into my tent claiming that I had ordered you to murder Lord Renly. They drew their swords as if to cut me down on the spot and my guards stepped in to protect me. There were so many Baratheon men and they looked crazed.  They easily killed my knights, but they protected me long enough for me to escape…What happened, Brienne? I know you would never hurt Renly.  Was it the Kingslayer?" 

"No," Brienne hissed vehemently.  "Ser Jaime saved me from being killed by my own comrades. It was Stannis..." She left the rest of her story unspoken, knowing that now, and perhaps, never would anyone believe what she had seen.  She could hardly explain how she knew that Stannis was behind his brother’s murder, but she had been overcome with the same unease and darkness that had wrapped around her during the parley.  Never had she experienced a presence so palpable, but unseen, that she was sure she would be able to reach out and touch it.  Yet, she had felt it twice and knew that it followed Stannis and his red priestess. "Please, my lady, I need to take you back to your camp and your son.  It's not safe here." 

"Clearly," Lady Catelyn sniffed with her chin lifted up.  "I would like to trust you, Brienne but-" 

"There is no one else to trust," Brienne interjected. "You will not make it on foot and every man here has been ordered to bring you to Ser Loras. Perhaps you could convince him of your innocence but when he found King Renly, he was so... broken and bloodthirsty. He-he killed some of his own men at the sight." 

"No. I will not take my chances with any more Baratheon bannermen, Stannis's or Renly's.  But tell me, Brienne, is it just you that will be escorting me back?" 

She frowned.  "I assure you that I am capable of protecting you myself."

"I meant to suggest my concern for the whereabouts of the Kingslayer," Lady Catelyn said with a pitying smile. 

"Uh. Ser Jaime left with the other Lannister hostages for King's Landing." Brienne did not like how she blushed with shame at that.  What was she supposed to have done, take him hostage for the Starks? "He has given his word that he will try to release your daughters and send them to you," she offered, knowing how weak it sounded. 

Lady Catelyn sighed, the soft sound melting into the brush of the leaves above their head as a wintery wind picked up, pulling at their hair and the lady's cloak.  "His word is naught to me, Brienne. And you should be wary of it, too.  But I have little faith that my son would be so willing to attempt to exchange the Kingslayer for his sisters.  Tell me, did you give him your word for anything?" 

"No, my lady," Brienne said.  "He asked nothing of me." _Save to keep myself safe_. 

In the cool shade of their quiet spot, which dulled the noises of a dissenting and disintegrating army, the mother of the Young Wolf and the Maid of Tarth regarded one another.  Brienne felt sure she had made the right decision to trust Lady Catelyn, though she could not bend the knee as the heir to Tarth and she would not offer her sword to King Robb, not yet.  Still, she had nowhere else to go and Lady Catelyn had shown her more honor than any man in the Baratheon camp.  It was a start. 

Having come to what must have been a similar decision; Lady Catelyn gave her a curt nod and held out her strong hand so that Brienne could help her rise from the dirt and roots of the tree that had sheltered them while they came to a kind of truce. She did not let go of Brienne, though, as the maiden guided her through the sparse tree line, searching for the horses that Jaime had promised to leave her.  It had taken much longer than anticipated to extract Lady Catelyn and she knew that Jaime would have made a much swifter departure.  She hoped. 

A whicker coming from further into the scant forest caught Brienne’s attention. Lady Catelyn heard the sound too, her grasp on Brienne’s hand tightening in concern.  But Brienne turned back to her with what she hoped was a comforting smile and gently offered her own squeeze.  By Lady Catelyn’s slight wince, she suspected she had been a little too hard and her smile had twisted her features unattractively. 

“Be at ease, Lady Catelyn,” she whispered.  “There are horses here to help us swiftly escape.” 

“How?” 

Hoping to avoid any more conversations about Ser Jaime, Brienne did not reply, tugging the lady along to where two large warhorses had been tethered, pawing at the earth and snorting impatiently through burning nostrils. Brienne let out a frustrated grunt as she took in the size and fierceness of the mounts that he had stolen, most likely wearing the stunning grin that had haunted her for months, chuckling deeply to himself as he left the monstrous beasts for them. 

She left Lady Catelyn a safe distance away as she inspected the pair. One was a hazy grey that eyed her warily through black irises surrounded by thick lashes. When she held out her palm, though, the mare was quick to snuffle around her glove and then shove her muzzle into it, hoping to urge Brienne to pet it.  She could not help but laugh as she complied, earning herself a hard shove to her chest as the horse offered its entire head for her attentions. 

She then turned to the chestnut, dappled with golden spots along the flank, which had been throwing its head and trying to ignore her and the gentled horse she was stroking.  Brienne approached this one more carefully.  It looked wild and tense, more like the warhorses she was used to.  It raised its head and moved its body away from her when she tried to reach out, allowing her to see the white now present in its eyes. So, she simply stood still and waited. After a moment, the mare gave a huff and moved to sniff around her.  Brienne tried to hide her smile as it lipped her hair, sending it into disarray, some of the strands irritating the strong muzzle and causing a sneeze to rain down on her.  

When the chestnut horse had finally decided it would allow her closer, Brienne noticed the sword that was partially hidden behind a pouch on the fine leather saddle.  Without thinking, she took a hard step towards the beast, reaching out to try to take the bejeweled hilt. The mare grumbled, dancing away and shoving into the other mount, which was allowing Lady Catelyn to stroke its mane, in an effort to retreat.  Brienne quickly snatched up the reins that were tethered to a tree, shushing and soothing into the sweating neck of the horse, trying to calm her own heart that had sped up at the sight. 

Lady Catelyn walked around to Brienne, following her gaze to the weapon underneath the bundle.  “Brienne, how is it that we have come across two warhorses in these trees, with yours carrying Lord Renly’s sword?” 

Ignoring the harsh, reprimanding tone, Brienne replied quietly from her mare’s soft neck, her eyes never leaving what Jaime had given her. “It is a gift.” He would have understood how much it would mean for her to have something of her king’s. But seeing it now brought forth the memories of what occurred in that pavilion, of the way the shadow had swallowed the light reflected in the blade.  It felt like a betrayal to the woman she was now sworn to and to the knight who had given her the sword, to hold on so reverently to it. “It is a gift for King Robb.”


	11. The Lannisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for their support. I know splitting up J/B may be unpopular, but I really did put a lot of thought into the decision. I also tried to keep their separation as short as possible. However, there were places I both wanted them to reach mentally and this part of the story does help drive the plot as well. I hope everyone stays with me, but I understand if this split is frustrating. I should note that we will see some J/C in this chapter, again because I think it's important to character development, but you all know I am of the all about J/B! I would also like to mention that I did play around a bit with the time line. I just had to!
> 
> I really cannot thank Coraleeveritas enough. These chapters of J/B apart were the most difficult for me to write for a lot of reasons. She has spent so so so much time going through these pages and working with me to develop the story and to ensure there are still J/B feels. Her input is invaluable and while any faults here are my own, I would not be as proud or relieved with how this all turned out if I did not have an amazing writer and friend as my spirit guide. :)
> 
> Sandwichesyumyum has also been instrumental. Of the many things I admire her for, her investment and creation of characters, canon or original, besides J/B, blows me away. To have her continuous and wonderful support and notes on these chapters has been instrumental in my confidence in posting them.
> 
> Enjoy!

Jaime could never look into his father’s eyes for long.  When he had been a child, he had struggled with the defiance of glaring right back at Tywin Lannister, keeping his body from trembling under the simmering wrath that always seemed to flicker just beneath the surface of his father’s gold tinged eyes.  Now, it was Jaime’s own swirling rage that kept him from meeting the cold gaze.  Instead, he focused on the slender, aged hand that pinched a black feather as it ran between the pads of two fingers.  Twyin had been in the middle of composing yet another letter when the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had stalked into his darkened and heavy chambers, after taking his time in answering the summons that demanded he report to the Tower of the Hand. 

For months, Jaime had dreamed about his return to King’s Landing.  Even if he had not romanticized coming home, the reality was still much worse than he had anticipated.  His small party’s progress to the capital had been hampered by having to hide from the chaos of Stannis and the Tyrells both converging towards the city.  Despite how hard they rode, they did not make it in time to join in its defense and only heard the first tales of the Battle of the Blackwater when they finally emerged from being forced to travel around the Kingswood.  It took them a week just to gain passage past the well guarded city gates and another day before they were allowed near the keep. 

Once they were admitted, Jaime was quick to gather information about his family.  His father had been efficient in cleaning up any rumors or fears concerning the strength of the city before it was saved, but still Jaime heard of the manic gleam in his sister’s eyes as Stannis approached and how she had called back Joffrey from the walls.  Tyrion had been forced to gather the knights again, after their leader had abandoned them, and hold back the Baratheon forces, despite his lack of battlefield experience.  However, while it seemed that King’s Landing was recovering and rebuilding swiftly under the careful eye of the new Hand, Jaime had no knowledge of what had happened to his brother.  And it seemed that none were concerned. 

“I did not call you here to discuss the Imp,” Twyin finally hissed when Jaime announced his presence with the inquiry.  Again.  “You are needed to keep an eye on the Tyrells.” 

Jaime shifted, letting his gauntleted hand rest on the sword at his hip.  The movement, as expected, caused Twyin’s eyes to shift to the white scales and silver plates of the Kingsguard armor that Jaime wore.  A slight frown cracked the edges of his father’s placid face before Tywin returned to scribing his correspondence. 

“My duty is to the king, Father,” Jaime replied, despite only holding a much smaller portion of Tywin’s attention now that it was clear how stubborn he would be in the matter.  “The Kingsguard is in shambles and I need time to train the new members that have been raised in my absence.  Without my consent.” 

“Sellwords,” Tywin snapped as he stabbed the inked feather into the parchment.  “Knights.” He repeated the motion, punctuating his words, as well as his written sentences.  “Fools.  Who stands in the Kingsguard matters little in the actual protection of His Grace.” Twyin looked up for a moment, ensuring that Jaime was watching him, before he went back to his scratching.  “As _you_ well know.” Jaime refused to flinch or react in any way at the lazy barb tossed to him.  “The king is guarded by the politics and the alliances that are made, not by a handful of armed men.  I will not allow you to continue wasting your time with such nonsense.” 

“I know you are terribly busy,” Jaime said through gritted teeth. “You may not have noticed, but I _am_ Lord Commander-“ 

“That can be changed.” 

With a huff, Jaime tossed his head, stamping down the thought that he was on the verge of a tantrum, reduced to nothing but a disobedient child in the eyes of his father.  He took another moment, and a heavy breath, before he turned back to Twyin, who had not even paused at the abrupt outburst.  “Is that a threat, Father?” 

“No, Jaime.” Tywin dipped his hand into a metal pot wrought with golden scrollwork running around the sides.  With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a scattering of salt across the parchment to absorb the excess ink.  “It is what will come to be.” He carefully folded up the letter and reached for another well that held crimson ink, which swirled ominously, like molten blood in the candlelight.  “I will let you play at being a knight for now, but very soon you will be expected to assist me in ruling, as I have bred you to do.  Your current position is problematic enough.  I’ve had to make enough concessions to Olenna Tyrell to quiet that squalling grandson of hers who keeps calling for your head.  And no, I don’t care to know what happened in that cursed camp.  We’re all better off with Renly Baratheon dead.” 

Sighing, Jaime remained silent.  He wanted to turn on his heel and leave, but Twyin Lannister rooted him to the spot, keeping him where he wanted.  After his father had made sure that Jaime knew of his continual control, he finally barked, “Dismissed.” Jaime started heading towards the large wooden doors, moving as fast as he could without running, letting the white cloak flow out behind him, but Tywin was still not finished with him.  “Jaime,” he called.  Jaime stopped, his fists curling into tight balls by his sides, but did not look back.  “Keep a distance from your sister for now.  I still have to clean up her mess and those filthy rumors.”

  

The beauty of Cersei would never cease to grip his heart, even when she was smiling wickedly from the arm of one of the newest members of the Kingsguard, _Ser_ Osney Kettleblack, a sellsword promoted above his abilities.  His presence in her quarters sent a familiar jolt of frustration through him that Jaime instinctively forced down while he painfully offered a twisted grin and a flash of his fangs.  He quickly managed to form it into a genuine smile though, for the sight of her after so long was a calming balm, watching his sister’s deep green eyes turn into murky pools as unshed tears dampened her golden lashes.  A sweet gasp slithered from her pouting red lips as her long, slender fingers released their hold on the shining plating of Kettleblack’s armor to reach out for him. 

Jaime strode forward, keeping in mind that there was someone else to witness their reunion, and wrapped her in a light embrace that kept their bodies slightly apart.  In a blink, it was over and Cersei stepped back, holding his arms so that she could take him in.  With her curved back turned to Kettleblack, who was busy stealing glances at the flare of her hips, she freely gave Jaime a sultry smirk and allowed herself to drink in his form, caressing every part of him with her gaze. 

“Jaime,” she sighed, as she had many nights before while he made her writhe beneath him, now running her hands down his arms to grasp his own in hers.   

The feeling of her soft skin being roughened by the calluses and scars now on his palms broke the moment.  He frowned as the past year he was away from her flooded into the air between them.  They were no longer parts of a whole, mirrors to look at each other and see themselves.  They were ends of a spectrum, light and dark, hard and soft, rage and peace.  But their places would fluctuate and blur so that Jaime was not sure on which side he stood.  All he could see in the moment was, as the rays of sun played with his love’s features, the different visages of the past. 

Cersei was still the most stunning woman in the land, but Jaime knew every line and contour of her face and body enough to be shocked that their time apart had altered her as much as it had himself.  Her lustrous hair still tumbled down in golden waves, perfectly tied back and braided without a single strand out of place.  Jaime knew the feeling of those locks between his fingers and brushing across his chest so well that he was hit with the sensation of the transformation as he watched her toss her head back, knowingly drawing his eyes to her hair.  He did not think that she had noticed the few grays that had entwined themselves with her braid, otherwise he doubted she would tease him like she was. 

Her smile cracked her unblemished, porcelain skin where age lines had begun to creep into the corners of her almond eyes and full mouth.  Jaime let his gaze drop for a brief moment, when Kettleblack was distracted, to take in the way her sleeves were a bit tighter around her arms and her waist melded into her hips, leaving less definition, if it was not for the metal wrought corset that she fiercely wore.  It was also clearly helping to support her heaving breasts, keeping them peeking out just below her collarbone.  He frowned slightly at the exposure of the velvety skin that he had loved to run his recently shaved cheeks across, always before he encased a bloated nipple between his teeth.   _When had she started revealing so much to other’s eyes?_  

“Does something _displease_ you, brother?” she hissed quietly, noticing how his thoughts had turned.  She wrenched her hands away from him and folded them back into the embroidered sleeves of her gown, hiding them in leaping lions and flowing manes. 

“I am surprised to find you with company,” Jaime smiled at her, though he did not deign to directly acknowledge the lumbering man behind her. 

“The Red Keep has become inundated with unfamiliar faces and new alliances,” she puffed.  Jaime chuckled, knowing well that she left unspoken how _unwanted_ these new guests were.  “As Queen Re ~~a~~ gent, I must be aware of my own protection at all times.” 

“And is that why you have enlisted the services of a member of the _Kingsguard_?” he asked, arching a brow at her.  He had little time to gather much information about the sellswords that Cersei had promoted to a position that many knights had dreamed of, and would have been much better suited for, but he knew enough from simply glancing at one of the Kettleblacks that they were there not raised to the white to protect Joffrey. 

Cersei scoffed, drifting over to a table next to the window.  Before she could reach out, Ser Osney had already bent to pick up a goblet filled with wine.  He offered it to Jaime’s sister with a slight bow and a lascivious grin, a look that both Cersei and Jaime were used to seeing from certain men when they regarded the Queen.  She tittered lightly, the sound tinkling like chimes in the wind, and took the cup, letting her fingers slide languorously along the blunt tips of Kettleblack’s. 

Jaime’s patience was waning, both for Cersei’s renewed love of her games and for the mess he had found upon returning to King’s Landing.  He liked little of what his beloved sister and father had done and he yearned to bury himself inside of her to forget and to remember. 

He crossed his arms, shifting lazy eyes to watch Kettleblack over his shoulder.  “Ser Osney,” he drawled.  “I doubt you will be successful in protecting the king, should something happen to him, if you are on the opposite side of the keep from his person.” 

“The Queen _personally_ requested _my_ company,” Kettleblack shot back. 

“Yes, Jaime.  I feel much safer with Ser Osney around,” Cersei admonished.  Though she threw at him all the dissatisfaction that was expected of her, he caught the darkening of her eyes and the slight twitch of her little nose as she hid her enjoyment at his clear jealousy. 

Jaime snarled so that only she could catch the sound, before turning a hard look at Ser Osney.  Though he and his brothers swaggered around the Keep as if they were lords, Jaime’s reputation was enough to quell any rising tides of arrogance they may try in his presence.  His single glance sent the man retreating, but not without a contemptuous scowl at his Lord Commander and a lustful smile at his Queen. 

When the door shut, Jaime stalked to it and flicked the lock.  He turned back to find his sister reclining on her feather bed, crimson skirts melting into the silk fabric of the sheets, exposing her thin ankles and small slippered feet.  She smiled demurely, peeking at him through her lashes while her fingers deftly reached behind her straight back to begin yanking at the lacings to her bodice. 

“You should be nicer to the knights under your command, sweet brother,” she sighed, biting her lip as she had to arch into her hands to grasp further up, deliberately jutting out her breasts for Jaime’s eyes to feast upon. 

Taking slow steps towards her, Jaime watched as she began to struggle.  “I would be if there were any actual _knights_ left in the Kingsguard.  Seven hells, Cersei, what were you thinking raising them?” Their father may not be the only one that would be working well into the night to clean up his sister’s messes. 

“I was doing what I needed to do to protect myself and my children,” she spat.  Giving up on her laces, she slammed her hands into the mattress.  “You were leagues away from us, basking in the comforts of Renly Baratheon’s camp.” 

Jaime closed the distance between them quickly, hurt and anger clear in his eyes from the way his sister tilted her chin triumphantly.  He raised his hands, for a moment thinking to shake her, before he placed them reverently on her shoulders, gently moving her so that she stood facing away from him.  He took up where she had surrendered to the laces of her corset and roughly tugged it loose.  “You know that I did everything I could to get back to you, Cersei.” 

“Perhaps,” she whispered, stealing a look at him from over one naked shoulder.  “But you were gone and I had no one to turn to.  That conniving little whore is trying to steal Joffrey from me and Tyrion has been plotting against us at every turn-“ 

“Father will not tell me where he is,” Jaime muttered, pushing the corset down and beginning to work on the fastenings of the gown. 

“It’s for the best.  Father knows what foul things the Imp has done and what he is capable of.  He needs to be sent away from King’s Landing. He should have never been here in the first place.” 

Still hurrying to feel her naked body, Jaime pressed his cold armor against her, hissing angrily in her ear, “We will _not_ send our _brother_ away, Cersei.” 

As the bulky shirts and sleeves pooled on the stone floor, revealing her silhouette beneath the thin shift, she turned around.  Her slender arms slinked up mail and wrapped around his neck.  She smiled again, always willing and smiling when they were alone, as her heavy breasts pressed against his chest plate.  Jaime had hungered and dreamed of her for months, all the while feeling slightly guilty that he did so in a warm tent and under copious furs, but his heart and cock yearned for her no less because of the comforts he had been granted. 

He walked her towards her bed, gripping her hips tightly, hoping that she would berate him for bruises in the morning, though he would not be allowed to be there to witness them bloom against her gossamer skin.  Still, every stolen and secretive heartbeat with her was precious.  He had lived for her and he would continue to do what he could to prove his worth for her affections. 

“Are you really going to think of the Imp at a time like this?” she teased when the backs of her knees met the bed. 

He growled at the venom that kept foaming behind Tyrion’s name, but he could not stop himself from dipping his head to nip at the sweet column of her neck.  “You know where he is.” 

Sighing, she pushed him a bit away, placing her hands on his chest, and made a grimace.  “Your beard feels terrible.  It will give me a rash.” Her hands moved further down, starting to deftly pull at his breeches, giggling at the hard bulge that he pressed into her palm. 

“Cersei…” he begged. 

“Oh, fine,” she huffed.  “I know where he is.  But, dear brother, _I_ need you more.  We have to decide what to do with that slut Tyrell-“ 

“Hush,” Jaime soothed, feeling his chest and body swell at the plea growing in her green eyes.  “You will have no problems with the girl.  Just let me see Tyrion, Cersei.” 

“Later,” she moaned, lowering them both to the bed. 

“No.” _First Father is telling me what I will do and now my sweet sister.  After months as a bloody prisoner, I am my own._  Jaime was still fully armored, which made him struggle to push himself up from the mattress and away from the warm pull of Cersei sprawled naked upon it.  “Now.”  

  

In the end, Cersei had refused to discuss their brother any further with him and Jaime had been forced to leave, his search unfulfilled and his lust still burning through his loins.  Since Cersei had married Robert, she and Jaime had battled through their share of disagreements, but neither had been able to keep away for long.  Nothing would have stopped Jaime before from stripping off his armor and taking Cersei quickly before one of her handmaids or other servant could come upon them.  But the tension and turmoil that hung like a heavy fog around the Red Keep had clearly been occupying her in his absence and it was starting to seep into Jaime’s thoughts and take over his own mind.  He had never thought that there would be a time where he would not seize the chance to fuck his sister, but when he had left her chambers, he barely recognized the naked woman with the sneer warping her stunning face or the way her green eyes looked past him to consider other, more important, matters.  He could not even understand who _he_ had become, to be so much more disturbed to find the same cold, calculated hunger consuming his sister as it had done their father, to realize that his absence from Cersei had left them both numb to even their mutual desires. 

It was a small consolation that he felt utterly justified in not wanting the wench to come with him.  Brienne would have been horrified to hear the Queen Re ~~a~~ gent speak of Margery Tyrell in such derogatory terms and she would have been hard for Tywin to mold and manipulate.   _Gods, she would have given me such a look when she met the men who now make up the Kingsguard.  At least it would have made me appear a little more favorable in comparison_.  But, she was not here to voice her disapproval, despite Jaime hearing it all anyway.  No, she had gone to the Starks, who would most likely not offer her nearly as many tumultuous alliances, underhanded scheming, nor questionable parentages.  She belonged with them, not helping Jaime clean up his family’s mess, regardless of how much he could have used a touch of stoicism and her unwavering sense of honor.  But the longer he stayed in the Red Keep, the harder it was becoming to hear her through the din of Lannister roaring. 

Jaime made his way back to the White Tower, where he could hide himself for a while and flip through the pages of the White Book, still mulling over what to add about the latest Lord Commander.  He was interrupted, however, by a young boy running him down, breathlessly calling for him.  Jaime paused to allow him to catch up, frowning slightly at the image of a scrawny, plain boy with wild, thin black hair, and dark eyes, one of which had a small red welt beneath the lower lid.  He noticed that there were scratches and bruises on his face and hands, but also that he wore a doublet which heralded a golden lion prancing on a field of blood. 

When the boy stopped in front of Jaime, he gaped up at him, panting slightly from his search.  “Well?” Jaime gently coaxed.  “Who sent you?” 

The boy blushed and shrugged, looking down to kick his boot into a raised stone on the floor.  “No-no one se-sent me…exactly, Lord-Lord Commander.” 

Running a hand impatiently through his hair, Jaime sighed.  “What’s your name?” he tried. 

“Pod.  Po-Podrick Payne.  Lord Commander.” 

“Payne, eh?” Jaime chuckled.   _Perhaps Ser Ilyn hadn’t been that adept at speech_ with _a tongue if this is how his kin speak_.  “Are you hoping to follow your cousin and become a knight?” 

That earned him a frightened glance before Pod looked back down.  “Ye-yes.  I’m a squire…well, I _wa-was_ a squire…for-for your brother.” 

Not thinking, Jaime reached out to snatch the bony shoulders of the boy, forcing him to look back up again.  “What happened to Tyrion, Pod? Do you know?” 

“Yes, Lo-Lord Commander.  I-I-I was with him.  On the Black-Blackwater.” 

“And now?” 

“He’s recovering.  He was very-very badly hurt.” Pod looked around nervously before giving Jaime a beseeching glance.           

“Take me to him.” 

Pod frowned, but nodded.  “I do not think you-you will be pl-pleased.” 

Jaime was wary of what the boy could be warning him of, but as he was led deep into the cold bowels of the keep, passing even the kitchens, Jaime’s wrath began to heat his body, letting him boil in his armor and his anger.  Whether Tyrion had a scratch on his hand or both his legs had been cut off to make him even shorter, the son of Tywin Lannister should have been given the most comfortable of rooms, while waited on by the Grand Maester and all his protégés.  Instead, in Jaime’s absence, his family had hidden Tyrion away in the hopes that he would be forgotten or presumed dead. 

He wanted to ask Pod what had happened on the Blackwater, but by the time the boy would have spluttered out a response, they would probably already be in Tyrion’s chambers.  Indeed, after rounding another corridor, in a part of the keep that Jaime now recognized to be where supplies were usually stored, Pod stopped at a small, nondescript door.  He glanced at Jaime, shrinking back when he saw his face twisted in agony. 

“Lord Ty-Tyrion was very br-brave, Ser,” Pod whispered. 

“We Lannisters are often called that, Pod,” Jaime muttered.  “It’s usually mistaken for stupidity.  Let me in and then go find Pycelle and tell him the Lord Commander expects his brother to be in Maegor’s by the end of the day.” 

Pod flashed a wide grin before he could force it, and his head, down submissively.  “Yes, Ser.” 

He quickly left Jaime to stare at the door.  It was small, only allowing enough berth for Jaime to step through with his arms kept tightly to his sides, recessed in a small alcove so that it was kept hidden in shadows cast by the torches strewn along the hall, as there were no windows this far into the keep.  The wood of the door was rotting towards the top, where water had leaked from the stone ceiling and begun to eat away at the old, soft material. Jaime wondered how any of his family even knew of such a place. 

Sighing, he reached for the handle, which flaked off sharp, black pieces of its rusted metal into his glove as he used all of his force to wrench the door open, the scream of the hinges echoing down the quiet hall.  Inside was a circular room with a single flame to light the small space.  Barrels of wine wound around the cold walls.  Some furthest from the entrance had been pushed aside for a small pallet, upon which his brother was laid. 

Tyrion was awake and he turned at the sound of Jaime’s entrance.  The sight of his younger brother made Jaime take a step back and the rage burned anew.  He looked smaller than Jaime could ever remember him being, the arrogance and cunning that typically swelled out his short body had withered and flickered like the weak torch above his bed.  His unruly black and blond curls were matted to his face and pillow, soaked from sweat that beaded along his brow.  One green eye and one black looked up at Jaime with a mixture of shock, anger, and pain.  But other than the light glistening off of the moisture on his forehead and glinting in his hard gaze, Tyrion Lannister’s face was nothing but a bloodied pile of loose and dirty rags, seemingly holding him together. 

“Brother,” Jaime gasped, finding his voice was fighting around a lump in his throat. 

“Jaime,” came the deep reply, rumbling through layers of linen.  “You look terrible.” 

The familiar japing tone pulled Jaime further into the room, guiding his feet so that he could crouch down besides his brother’s pillow.  He wrestled off his gauntlets and gloves so that he could search out under the thin blanket and find Tyrion’s tiny, rough hand, enclosing it in the warmth of his own.   

“Pod is fetching Pycelle.  By nightfall you will be in a feather mattress-“ 

“With a knife in my gut, no doubt,” Tyrion snapped.  He closed his eyes as a wave of pain wracked his body and moved his head away so that Jaime could not watch.  But, as he did, Jaime saw how the bandages were pressed flush between his cheeks and his upper lip.  There was no rise of the large nose that Jaime had tweaked as a child, a gesture which used to make Tyrion laugh. 

“Seven hells,” Jaime cursed. 

Tyrion looked back at him, laughing madly as he saw realization and horror run across Jaime’s face.  “Be lucky it was just my nose, brother.  Ser Mandon Moore was aiming for my neck.” 

“What? That cannot be, Tyrion.” _Have the wounds become infected and he is mad with fever? What has_ happened _in my absence?_  

“Oh, I would surely remember well, as it was supposed to be the last image I saw.” Tyrion coughed and wheezed slightly, his voice harsh from lack of use.  Jaime looked about, trying to find a pitcher of water, but found none.  “But luckily for me, what Pod lacks in the control of his tongue, he makes up for in action.  He will tell you the truth.  Just do not make any plans for an afternoon if you want to get it out of him.” 

“Tyrion, I know that things have become worse since I was last in King’s Landing, but why would a knight of the Kingsguard turn on a family member of his king in such a manner? It makes no sense.” 

“You know well that such knights do not act on their own, not unless they are ordered.” 

“Joffrey-“ 

“-hasn’t the prowess to have me killed and make it look like a casualty of battle.” 

Tyrion waited, breathing raggedly and letting Jaime sigh, scanning his body as if his pains would reveal the truth.  Ser Mandon had been a hard man, one that not even Jaime’s jokes or easy smiles could elicit a response from.  His ability to hide his emotions and intentions had always made Jaime leery of him, but he had only appeared to love his duty, taking no joys from drinking, whoring, or even ruthlessly killing.  He would never raise his sword against Tyrion unless he was told to.  And the only command he would follow would be from his king or…   

“Cersei would never do this.” 

Tyrion made to snort, but only groaned in pain when the air escaped his ruined face.  He rolled his eyes instead.  “I know you left two siblings who were so loving and tender towards each other, brother mine, but unfortunately, things have changed drastically since then.”      

In the chilling darkness of the storage room, Jaime could not deny the truth in those words, even though they were dripping in sarcasm.  He had heard the way that Cersei had spoken of Tyrion, her claims that he had been one of the many now conspiring against her.  The helplessness and frustration Jaime felt made him want to force over the barrels in the room and watch the red wine stain the stones, while he yelled and refused the certainty until he awoke from the nightmare.  But the light weight of his brother’s hand, nestled in his, kept him hunched over, shackled to the ground, dragged down by his family and his duty that tore at his white cloak and whispered names in his ear.   _Brother.  Son.  Lover.  Kingslayer._  

 _Jaime_.  Brienne’s voice caressed his mind and lightened his shoulders.   _Ser Jaime_.  She had called him that. 

“ _No one_ will touch you, Tyrion.” Jaime squeezed his hand.  “You will recover and you will be a nuisance again to the whole family soon enough, one that can’t be hidden in a wine cellar.” 

Tyrion laughed and this time, it held a bit of mirth as he looked up at his older brother, a grin darkening and sparking in his both of his eyes.  “Oh, I imagine Cersei can find me here well enough.  Wine cellars are her second favorite spot in the keep, after the throne room.” 

Jaime chuckled as well, pulling away one of his hands to rub it tiredly across his face, pausing to tweak his own nose.  “I’ll take care of you, brother.” 

It was a familiar motion when Tyrion stretched to pat Jaime’s knee reassuredly.  He may have been the one shoved into an alcove to die, but he had been aware of the fragile strands that held the family together, merely waiting for them to snap so that he would be cast aside.  Jaime had always believed in the strength of their name and their power.  But now, he was seeing the threads beginning to fray just as Tyrion did. 

“I know you will, Jaime.”


	12. The Starks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that is sticking with me!
> 
> I could not have done this without my beta and friend, Coraleeveritas. I needed her especially for these chapters and if it was not for her brilliant ideas, constant support, and taking the time every day to work with me, this would go nowhere! I can never say thank you enough to her for everything she does for this story and everything she does for me!
> 
> Sandwichesyumyum has also been instrumental, not only for this piece but for also helping me through a really difficult time. Her love for me and her comments on these chapters keeps me sane! Thank you!

It was dark.  Brienne could not discern where she was or why the gloom felt so thick she could wade in it.  She knew, deep in the recesses of her mind, that this was simply a dream, that she could not be harmed in the world her head had created.  But still, she sensed the fear and dread rise up from her belly, pulling her further from wakefulness.  She had been in this place before, though she only remembered the details when she finally fell asleep after a long day of traveling and a longer night fighting off the drag of fatigue. 

It was dark, darker than the backs of her eyelids, and darker than the cluster of trees she had fallen asleep under, the clear crisp sky having painted her closed eyes in hazy moonlight and the glitter of stars.  It was too dark for her to still be only fitfully resting, aware of the noises and smells of her surroundings.   

Only then, as she fell deeper, did she remember what happened next, as it had on every night of her journey.  A hot breath breezed across her chin and neck while a familiar warm and calloused hand confidently sought out her arm, clutching it. 

“Wench.” The soft, deep voice rumbled in her core, stirring her body, though Jaime Lannister had no notion of his power over her.  “I cannot see.” 

“Neither can I,” she murmured back, wary of what their whispers may rouse from the unknown.  Inadvertently, she scooted closer to the warmth escaping his mouth as he heaved in air like he had been running hard. 

“Yes, you can,” he chuckled back.  She bristled slightly at the mocking tone, but knew he could not see her frown.  “Open your eyes.” 

She did and, for a moment, she thought that she had awoken fully.  But that was how it had always been, the place that came into detail being so vivid that she had no sense of dreaming, yet she was still trapped in the blanket of her sleep.  It was odd, though, that clearly her mind had created this place as it must have been from some memory.  She could not recall, however, where she would have come across such an expanse.  She was standing in a swamp, mist and putrid fog rolling about her ankles as she bounced her heels on mossy earth beneath her.   As far as she could see, which was not far because of the green haze which clung to the trees and vines around her, was forest, laden with rich vegetation.  It was night and she could hear the faint chirping of crickets and the lazy slosh of water off in the distance.  Far away, enveloped and hidden in the mire, was a looming gray keep, rising above the trees like a fortress. 

“Where are we, Jaime?” She turned, expecting, and secretly hoping, to find green eyes following her movements and glowing in the fog. 

Instead, she was on her hands and knees, crawling back amongst the carpets of King Renly’s tent, scrambling to reach him as his blood seeped from his collar and slithered towards her.  He was gaping and flopping around like a fish while she pulled herself forwards, panic rising anew.  The shadow was all around them again, just as it had been before.  But now there were no voices, no soldiers standing outside.  There was only the sound of His Grace gurgling and wheezing over the hushed silence of the swamp still outside, pressing in on the fabric of the tent.   

He was looking up at her, watching with pleading dead eyes.   _That was wrong,_ she thought.  He had died quickly, the sharp shadowed blade easily spilling his blood so that he was already lifeless before his body crumpled to the ground.  In her dreams, though, there was still a chance to save him, if only she could reach him in time to staunch the flow that was spreading thickly around his chest and staining her elbows and knees as she struggled.   

If King Renly lived, then everything would make sense again.  She would still be fighting for her liege lord, covered in the colors of the rainbow, pristine and protected in her beliefs.  She would not be fleeing North like a condemned woman to the Starks, unsure of her place with them or how the values that she had clutched so firmly now easily slipped through her grasping fingers. 

But what was the price for his life? It was always a choice she made in her nightmares, manifesting now as she watched the black curls of Renly Baratheon lighten, his round, bright eyes slanting and darkening to pools of jade, his mirthful cheeks falling away to rough stubble and golden skin stretched tight over high cheekbones.  Jaime Lannister laid before her, one hand outstretched as if reaching for her, but there was no life left in his body to move his arm or warm her fingers as she finally grabbed him. 

Seeing Jaime prone before her, dead in her dreams and remaining lost to her when she would awaken, always stirred a frightening mix of desire and deep anguish churning in her gut.  It chased away her resolve and her strength and she found herself shaking, letting the terror bubble up her throat. 

And she screamed.

  

It was an exhausting and treacherous journey through the Riverlands, taking Lady Catelyn back to Riverrun.  The nightmares plagued Brienne every time she closed her eyes, stopping her from finding enough rest to revitalize her tired mind and body, making her weary and edgy whenever she would wake.  She knew her cries that ended her restless nights had never actually left her lips, but Lady Catelyn seemed to sense the disquiet in her escort anyway.  However, she never voiced any of her concerns, choosing to remain as silent and sullen as her companion. 

They were thankfully occupied with other thoughts while fleeing King Renly’s camp.  Brienne kept them off the main roads as best she could, forcing them into the soft earth and spikes of trees that littered the Riverlands, which they had to trudge and wind their way through, slowing their progress.  Their mounts were thankfully sure footed and eager to move, but Brienne dared not compliment them since Lady Catelyn still eyed the pair warily, the questions about the Kingslayer playing around her stern, thin mouth and narrowed blue eyes.  It was a matter of distrust that clung heavily to the space between, like the humid air that pressed wet fabric and hair to their skin. 

But Brienne’s successful return of the lady to her family appeared to seam up the rift that had stretched through their flight.  Lady Catelyn had not only been concerned with placing her life in the hands of a woman who had failed at protecting her king, but she had been anxious to return to her own son and hear word of the continuing war.  When they had first entered the sandstone walls of the Tully fortress, using the only means of entrance from land, as rushing water from the Tumblestone and the Redfork pushed against the other sides of the castle that rose from their fords, Lady Catelyn straightened and set her jaw in a manner that Brienne had seen her do in King Renly’s camp. 

Though they had been greeted by Lady Catelyn’s brother, Ser Edmure Tully, and two of his lords and a maester, both women were preoccupied by their first sight of the hordes of commoners inside, who were bunched up amidst the space between the outer walls and the keep.  Ser Edmure had admitted to taking them all in, though he had little time to recount for his sister any more details as he planned on riding out soon to protect Riverrun from Tywin Lannister’s forces as they converged from the land and any crossings.

Lady Catelyn had not seemed pleased at leaving the castle without being properly garrisoned and having most of the folk of the Riverlands hidden inside.  But with King Robb off in battle, Ser Edmure was in command and so, Lady Catelyn demurred with only some protest.  Brienne imagined she was simply too exhausted to argue more vehemently, instead expressing her eagerness to see her ailing father.  Had Brienne been more established amongst the ranks of Stark bannermen, she might have added her own voice to her lady’s.  Tywin Lannister was clearly trying to smoke out the hive and leave the castle vulnerable.  He would poke and prod at its defenses until he found a crack and then he would swarm in, just as Brienne had watched his son do, except Jaime had used words and his own hands rather than directing hundreds of men in a campaign. 

So, Brienne was left with Lady Catelyn and a paltry group of older lords to wait out the potential siege.  The Tully matriarch visited her father often and still managed to ensure that the keep was kept running as news of the Stark armies filtered in.  But Brienne saw the determination slip from Lady Catelyn’s features on occasion, turning her into a worried and haggard woman, kept together for the hope of her children and torn apart from watching her father slowly die.   

There had been a glimmer of hope in her, sparking a fire and setting the wolf to howl at the moon, when she had beseeched King Renly to exchange Jaime for her daughters.  With that prospect gone, she was simply a fish again, swimming against the cold and brutal current, not knowing why she must keep moving but being driven by instinct.  It was all that was left in the end.  Brienne knew that well since she had felt like she was doing the same, now that she had fled after His Grace’s murder. 

With duties done for the moment, Brienne knew to find Lady Catelyn in the sept her father had built.  It was set amongst the beautiful gardens, across from the flourishing godswood that remained silent and unused.  But the weeping eye of the weirwood tree still followed Brienne’s strides as she slipped inside the large doors of the sept and made for the Mother before she had even spotted her charge. 

The space was empty save for Lady Catelyn and it was dark, candles only being lit around the single altar.  They framed and haloed her kneeling form, turning her gray skirts into sharp shadows and setting her auburn hair, crown braided tightly and the rest hanging loose in the Northern fashion, into burning flames, licking at her taut shoulders and fidgeting arms.  She had her hands clasped in prayer, but in between the strong and thin fingers held a crumpled bunch of parchments, wrinkled from her restless hands that worried at the edges.     

There was no need for Brienne to announce her presence.  Over the days, she had been the only one to interrupt the lady’s prayers.  So, she waited. 

“You have done well here,” Lady Catelyn finally murmured.  Her voice carried to the high ceilings.  Rasping and strained as they were, they boomed in Brienne’s ears, making the wolf seem larger than her hunched stature. 

“I have done my duty, My Lady,” Brienne replied formally. 

Lady Catelyn sighed and ducked her head.  It was a familiar gesture of annoyance at Brienne’s stoicism.  Jaime had done it often enough and Lady Catelyn had picked it up on their travels.  She had no idea what to make of a proper highborn lady who behaved like a knight, though it had not stopped her from taking her in and trying to understand. 

She stood, smoothing her skirts as she made to sit on one of the wooden benches, motioning for Brienne to sit beside her.  “Your duty is quite unique, Brienne,” she said as she turned her cutting eyes to the young maiden.  “You have sworn yourself to me, but I have not named you my sworn shield.  You have not bent the knee to the North, nor acknowledged Robb as your king.  What do you mean to do here?” 

“I-I”, Brienne stammered.  “I wish to protect _you_ , My Lady.  I cannot bend the knee to King Robb without the approval of my father.” It was not completely a lie, but she knew that Lord Selwyn would be just as hesitant to swear fealty to a man whose loyalties remained on the other side of Westeros. 

“Is this because you are a lady…or a knight?” Lady Catelyn raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 

“Both.” 

“I am not so blind to your upbringing, you know,” Lady Catelyn said, changing the subject too fast for Brienne to catch up.  “Are you Lord Selwyn’s only child?” 

Brienne ducked her head, looking away from the Mother and the mother.  “Yes,” she murmured.  “I had siblings, but they died when I was a child.  My mother went with the last one.” 

“I, too, lost siblings, brothers, before I was born, that were supposed to take the seat.  I was the first surviving child and though I was a girl, I was bred to rule.  I felt it my duty to be both lady and lord.” She waited until Brienne turned back to her and bowed her head to continue.  “But that is not the place of women.  We can advise and hold the keep for a time, but we must always give way.  When my father,” Lady Catelyn swallowed while her eyes sprung with cold, salty tears that would not escape, “…dies, my brother will become Lord of Riverrun.  I am simply his sister and the mother of the King of the North.  And you, Brienne, for all your freedom and pride, have a duty to your father and Tarth, to take back up the name of ‘Lady’.” 

Brienne shook her head.  She thought that perhaps Lady Catelyn was testing her resolve, which was foolish since she could say nothing Brienne had not heard before.  “My father is young and there are others that could give him children.   _You_ would be a wise and just ruler, but _I_ was not made to take the seat of Tarth.  And even if I did, I would have to give it to a husband, who would want me only for the title.  The people of Tarth do not deserve to be ruled by a man bent on power.” 

“And what do _you_ deserve?” 

“The choice,” Brienne replied without hesitation. 

Lady Catelyn allowed a small smile to pull at her thin lips and she nodded.  Then she straightened, waving the parchments in her hand under the younger woman’s nose.  “King Renly’s forces have scattered and some have sworn fealty to the Lannisters,” she paused, studying Brienne’s reaction and seeming to find none.  After all that she had seen at the camp, Brienne was not surprised that the lords would scramble to quickly bend the knee to another king.  And she knew the Tyrells would not fade back into the hedges of High Garden, nor would they submit to Stannis Baratheon. Lady Catelyn continued.  “Stannis has taken the Stormlands.” 

Brienne nodded.  She had tried to focus on her role as Lady Catelyn’s shadow amongst the Starks and force back her concerns for her father.  Luckily, Stannis had his eyes set to larger prey than punishing those lords that swore fealty to his younger brother, but Brienne feared it was only a matter of time before he turned his shrewd gaze back on men like her father.  It was fruitless to be swept up in those worries now, though, trapped inside Riverrun as she was. 

“With Lord Tywin consumed with the Riverlands, Lord Stannis would be wise to use his larger armies and head south,” Brienne offered. 

“Stannis lacks many things, but he is not short on wisdom,” Lady Catelyn agreed.  “Robb is making his way towards the Crag and Edmure has been able to hold the crossings from Tywin.  But there has been no word from my son if he wishes for him to continue and I wonder how long Tywin will keep testing our barriers.” 

Brienne paused, knowing little of Tywin Lannister, but thinking of what Jaime would do.  “He does not enjoy defeat, but the loss of a battle will mean little in the winning of a war, My Lady.  He will not linger long.” 

“No,” Lady Catelyn murmured, thumbing through the parchments.  “The rest of the men are spread out, with Lord Bolton commanding a large party that will surely attract Lannister forces, especially Gregor Clegane.”       

“With Lord Bolton and the Mountain in the Riverlands, Tywin Lannister could make one final attempt to cross,” Brienne hesitated, noticing her lady’s frown.  “The Red Fork.” 

“Yes, Brienne”, Lady Catelyn sighed.  “And my brother will be there to meet him.  Robb and his men have yet to lose a battle.” 

Searching through the weakly held remnants of Septa Roelle’s lessons, Brienne tried to create a map of the south, routing out where Lord Tywin would go next.  “Should the Lannisters be forced to retreat, they may return to King’s Landing.” 

“Which would be a favorable outcome if Stannis was not also presumably heading there.” 

Brienne shook her head in confusion, staring into the guttering flames of the low candles.  “Would it not be to your benefit to have one enemy take out another?” 

“Stannis Baratheon may be reasoned with-“ 

“No,” Brienne snapped before she could stop herself.  Lady Catelyn arched a red brow at her, but said nothing of her inappropriate conduct, so Brienne continued.  “What he did to his own brother is proof of his ruthlessness.  He cannot be trusted.” 

“Robb would probably agree,” Lady Catelyn allowed. 

“Then he has no intention of having another man take down Tywin Lannister.” 

“I doubt that was his plan.” 

“Ser Edmure and his men, then.  They could create a complication in King Robb’s idea to root out the Lannisters,” Brienn gasped.  She stared wide eyed as the worry that had pulled at the frown lines of Lady Catelyn’s mouth were most likely mirrored in her own.  “Beg your pardon, My Lady, but why do you not warn the king? Or your brother?” 

Lady Catelyn stood and Brienne followed without thought.  She trailed behind her solemnly, watching her skirts dust across the stone floor and her shoulders pierce the air with their rigidity.  “Because _I_ had no choice, Brienne.  I am a mother and the sight of strategy that is gifted to every Tully is only secondary.  In the end, no one will heed me, mother of the king that I am.” 

And yet, Brienne had seen her strength and her power.  It was the reason why she was the only Stark whom she would allow to command her.   

 

Brienne hurried to the great hall, cursing herself for leaving her lady at all.  With the celebration for Ser Edmure's victory drawing out the nobles and commoners alike from the keep, she had been able to sneak up to the walls to gaze out of the fords sweeping past Riverrun, their glossy waters sparkling in the crisp night.  

She had not been able to catch her breath since arriving at the castle, still feeling the cooling skin of her king beneath her fingers, as vivid as when she had touched him for the first and last time.  But her heart would not mourn his loss as she should.  She had been drowning in a constant fight to kick to the surface from beneath another man's contact, one that held more promise and heartbreak than she could have ever imagined.  Her nightmares were not truly about her failure of King Renly, but in the betrayal of her heart for another. 

In the Stark camp, she was even more of an outsider than she had been with the Baratheon bannermen.  There was no common cause or goal that they could rally to and while she received stares for her hulking form trailing after her lady like an obedient pet, she also saw, in many eyes, contempt cast her way.  She had sworn herself to a Baratheon and turned tail the moment he had been killed, after all.  The entire camp knew she had not bent the knee to their king, rather offering her sword to his mother.  Though the men gave her distance and respect, Brienne knew they held Lady Catelyn in little regard.  It was as she had said in the sept; she was simply the mother of a king.  Hearing the disdain in the lady’s voice and watching the proof herself as she haunted the keep, Brienne felt no desire to try to bond with men that could not find worth in the noble and intelligent woman that held the castle while the rest were off to war. 

It was lonely, which surprised Brienne since she had come to embrace the empty silence that had surrounded her since the moment her mother had died, a memory so distant she could only recall it in dreams.  But this time, the loneliness was different.  It was a phantom limb that had been severed from her body, robbing her of warmth and comfort she had not thought to ever possess. She missed sly smiles and deep words that burned her skin and heated her belly.  She yearned for a companionable reticence that could wrap her up snugly like a blanket.  She wanted to be allowed to set her gaze and study her new surroundings without feeling a returning glance full of ignorance and scorn.   _If only Jaime was here_. 

It was the first time she had allowed herself to think that, since it made little difference on where matters stood.  He had to return to King's Landing, to his duties as Lord Commander, to his family, to his sister.  The touches he had bestowed on Brienne did not change those demands, as it had not convinced her to desire to follow him.  She would have been cast aside once in Kings Landing, given some maidenly chores and stripped of her armor, forgotten by all, especially him.  Ser Jaime belonged _there_ , in his white cloak, a place where she never would be anything more than an ugly face in the crowd. But she had found the chance to offer a greater service by saving Lady Catelyn and though she was as highborn as Ser Jaime's sister, she would never try to command Brienne to abandon her sword, as would have been her fate in King’s Landing.  Despite the dull ache, squeezing on an emptiness newly wrought in her chest, Brienne knew that she had made the right choice in joining the Starks. 

Plagued with her internal battle to right herself as she had always been, a stoic force to forge on, it had been a relief to find some peace in the congested castle.  Lady Catelyn had taken to pouring over maps and ruminating in Lord Tully's study when she was not with her father and Brienne had found that even when it was just the two of them, the room was crowded with Lady Catelyn's thoughts.  Though she had told Brienne she had accepted her duty as simply a mother of a king, she still could not keep herself from gathering up information should her son turn to her for advice.  Brienne hoped that King Robb was wise enough to do so, though it appeared he had not sent word to her in all the time he had been away in battle. 

News had finally come, though not concerning this particular son. Maester Vyman had hunted her down, breathlessly telling her of her lady's despair over learning that the Stark's charge, Theon Greyjoy, had taken Winterfell for the Ironborn and put Brandon and Rickon Stark to the death.  As Brienne rushed to Lady Catelyn's side, she pushed down her own grief and turmoil over hearing of the demise.   _How could someone who had only been given kindness and protection by a family turn on them so heinously?_  

Lady Catelyn was alone in the great hall.  She was sitting on the raised dais at the head table, rigid and cold in one of the chairs off to the side, white fingers strangling the neck of a goblet.  When Brienne pushed open the doors to the hall, Lady Catelyn looked up and her dry eyes turned hard at seeing her.  Hastily, Brienne shut the doors and made her way to the Stark matriarch. 

"My Lady, I am deeply sorry to hear of your loss," she offered, bowing before the table while she hovered on the steps. 

Lady Catelyn choked down a sob and hissed back through a throat raw from crying, "There is no one left now." 

"King Robb-" 

"Is my king first and then my son," Lady Catelyn replied.  "Why? Why do they all betray us?" 

Brienne took a hesitant step forward, reaching out to take the hand that was not gripped around the cup.  It felt chilled even through her gauntlets.  "There is still a chance for your daughters." 

"What chance? They are hostages of the Lannisters! And now Tywin and Stannis are both converging on King's Landing.  My girls will be caught in the middle of a war they have no part in." 

She was right, even if only she and Brienne realized the implications. King Robb was too far away at the Crag to intercept Lord Tywin and his only option was to return to Riverrun and regroup.  Still, Brienne tried to provide some peace for this mother, silently raging in despondency behind her rigid armor of perfect posture and refined elegance.  "Ser Jaime promised me he would try to have the girls returned to you." 

Lady Catelyn narrowed her eyes until they were slips of blue mist clinging to the dark chasms of her lashes.  Her mouth set into a tight line and she snatched her hand out from Brienne's, bringing both her palms to the table so that she could rise and push back her chair, the scrape of the wood on stone the only sound punctuating the tension. Brienne stepped back warily. 

"And you believe the man that crippled my son?" the wolf roared. She barked a sharp laugh.  "Of course you do.  I should have known." She swept around the table, heading towards Brienne while she retreated down the steps backwards.  "Did he take you to bed, Brienne, and promise you his love if you betrayed me?  Tell me, why did you not slit my throat on the road, when we were alone?" 

"My Lady, please," Brienne gasped, hurt and worry gnawing painfully at her stomach as memories of Jaime’s proximity swirled in her mind.  "I swore an oath to you.  I would never hurt you." 

"That is what I believed of the others and here I am with only one child left. And you tell me to trust the _Kingslayer_." 

"He-he is more than just that, My Lady," Brienne tried.  "He protected me against knights wishing to besmirch my repute and helped me to get you out of King Renly's camp.  We may both be dead if it was not for him." 

"And what did you give him to repay him for his kindness?" Lady Catelyn snarled.  She had finally stopped prowling after Brienne and was now shaking from head to toe. 

"No-nothing.  Please, he is not like the rest of his family.  He has honor.  If he can send you your daughters, he will." 

Lady Catelyn snorted.  "I pitied you for your love of Renly.  I never thought you were so innocent as to turn your affections on the Kingslayer.  You have more integrity than that." 

"It's not a fancy," Brienne quickly replied.  "I learned to trust him.  That's all." 

"I want all the Lannisters dead," she rasped vehemently.  "I want Theon Greyjoy and all the Ironborn to drown in their beloved seas. I want revenge on them _all_ , Brienne." 

"And you will have it, My Lady", Brienne said before thinking it through.  As soon as the words left her lips, she knew it was a lie.  "You deserve it." That, at least, was not. 

When Brienne reached out again, Lady Catelyn took her hand and squeezed.  There was no smile of assurance or nod of acceptance though.  So, Brienne left the great hall, the last image being of the Stark matriarch crumbling to the steps.  She shut the doors firmly and took a forbidding stance in front of the heavy iron pulls, her ear close enough to the gap between the doors to hear the wracking sobs of the mother of the king as she emptied out her grief, unknown to all but her sworn shield. 

 

A light, frigid rain cleared out most of the courtyards and battlements, settling the mood that had begun when Lady Catelyn had retreated back to her father’s chambers to mourn.  The sound of the small drops striking metal sounded out hollowly against the stone and wood, echoing in the silence that had been filled with merriment a short while ago.  Listening to the water playing its song against her armor, letting it soak through her hair and freeze her inside her chilled steel, Brienne welcomed the tears from the sky and the silent blanket of mist that shrouded the keep.  It was fitting that the heavens would open up, for the Mother to cry for the lost children and lend her own despair to Lady Catelyn’s. 

As Brienne wandered aimlessly through the open alleys, avoiding the shelter more than the rain, she caught the dampened sound of a blade meeting dull resistance.  Following it to the gardens surrounding the sept and godswood, she found Ser Bryndyn Tully hacking at a leather pole, stepping in and dancing away, his sword flashing as he swung it to parry and lunge.   

Though the Blackfish was tall and well muscled, his rough face was etched with lines of age.  His hair, so thick that it had not been wet through with the fragile drops, and bushy eyebrows were a muted grey, like the color of blunted steel.  But his eyes, the same Tully blue as his niece, were still young.  And his feet and stance were controlled and strong, his breath coming out in evened plumes of white smoke, curling up around his slight stubble clinging to the leather of his skin. 

He did not hear her approach under the curtain of swirling rain, the quiet crunch of her steps masked by the lamenting heavens.  But her blue armor and straw hair caught his eye and he stopped suddenly.  Brienne immediately bowed, though he simply regarded her, tapping his sword against his thigh.  When she straightened, he offered her a sweeping dip, brandishing the blade to exaggerate the movement.  Grinning, he tossed the tip towards a pile of discarded practice swords lying in the saturated grass. 

“Do you dance, My Lady?” Ser Bryndyn asked in his husky voice that seemed to warm the air around them. 

_The only ones I’ve ever enjoyed were with Ser Jaime_.  “I’ve done a few twirls, Ser,” she replied, blushing at his rough chuckle as she chose her weapon from the heap. 

“I expect you to have done more than a few if you are guarding my niece,” he said as he lifted his blade.  Brienne allowed him to tap her own before she took a step back, crossing her ankles to widely circle him while he turned in his spot to watch her.  “She said you were quite impressive in a melee.” 

The squelch of his boots in the mud warned her before he thrust out to try to catch her in her shoulder.  She deflected easily, but found it much more difficult to keep her footing as she slipped in the slick grass and sank in the wet earth. 

“But,” the Blackfish grunted as he strived to take advantage of her stumble, darting quickly to jab at her rib.  She flung her hips behind her, narrowly missing the swipe across her belly.  “A tourney is nothing like a real battle.” 

Brienne used the position of her sword, raised over her head to allow her to avoid Ser Bryndyn’s attack, to knock aside his blade before he could try to press her further.  She only huffed out a response, choosing to ignore his words.   _He talks just as much as Jaime, but the jabs are much duller_.  Instead, she used her strength to run her blade upwards, slicing through rain and crisp air in an attempt to catch her opponent in the thigh.  It was too low for him to spot at first, but he was quick when he noticed, instinctively twisting away while struggling to block her with his own sword.  She still caught him and the blow would most likely leave a bruise on his muscle, though it would not have sliced deeply, had they been using sharpened weapons. 

“You may have unhorsed a knight,” he continued while he limped away to a safe distance.  “But what if he had struck you across the neck first?” To emphasize, he made to slice at her collarbone, but she simply pulled back, only weakly attempting to catch him against his arm as she retreated.  “A tourney sword may not have injured you, leaving you to parry, but you would have been dead if it was piercing steel.” 

Gritting her teeth, Brienne pressed forward, taking on the attack as the Blackfish winded himself with talk and playing with her.  The amusement left his eyes in a flash when she used her weight to shove him off balance and he had to scramble to block her forceful blow against his chest.   

Finally, she spoke as she gave him no space to recover.  “I fought against my own allies to pull Lady Catelyn from the chaos after King Renly’s death.” 

He attacked with precision, each move a sharp cut, a narrow task of his body responding to each command that was punctuated by his thoughts.  It felt as if he was an extension of his blade, crisp and clean, slicing the air with each confident step.  There was no song accompanying his movements, nor was it anything like a dance.  Ser Brydyn did not hear the steel, only used it to complete his task, his eyes set on the glories from a fight, the honor and nobility that was bestowed, and the need to protect. 

But Brienne felt the beat in her veins, her heart hammering to a melody that thrummed through her body and melted her limbs with the fire of her burning muscles.  She flowed with the rain and bent in the soft wind while the Blackfish carved through it all, forging his own path, rigid and erect.  It was nothing like sparring with Jaime, dancing with him, falling into his grace and fluidity while they circled each other, reveling in the ease with which they met and moved apart. 

“You can align yourself with whomever you please,” he grunted.  “As long as you put my Cat’s life before your own.” With a sudden and unexpected surge, Ser Bryndyn shifted to dodge away, landing his hilt on the small of her back where a piece of her mail was exposed between the plates of armor.  The jolt reverberated up her spine and buckled one of her knees.  With a groan, she was forced to kneel on a leg. 

She did not have to look behind her to know that he was raising his sword for the finishing strike.  As any dutiful knight would, Brienne assumed he was focusing on her own blade and her bent leg, waiting for it to rise as she tried to stand.  So, she swept the knee on the ground around herself instead.  Using the momentum, she was able to move close to him as she turned, sliding her body up his and away from the striking range of his sword.  With her shoulders and thighs, she pushed him into her turn, throwing him off balance again and giving her time to shove away his sword and press the tip of her own blade to his neck.   

With a wheezing chuckle, Ser Bryndyn stilled, raising a thick eyebrow.  "I yield," he grinned. 

Brienne stepped back, lowering her sword and then tossing it back into the pile.  While she had always thrilled at extracting those words from Jaime's soft mouth, she felt hollow in her victory now, the thrill washed from her skin, along with her sweat, by the cold rain, chilling her even more.  Still, the pounding of her chest and the icy air in her lungs were welcome distractions from nightmares and solitude.  "Thank you for the practice, Ser." 

The Blackfish laughed at that.  "I can still fight, but I suppose I'm not what I used to be.  Come, let's get out of this rain.  It's freezing my old bones." 

He began to pick up the tourney swords and Brienne bent to help, using the opportunity to speak without having to make eye contact.  "I have heard of your skills even before swearing my services to Lady Catelyn." 

"I'm sure they were all tales from long ago," he snorted.  With a sharp creaking of limbs, he stood and they headed back towards the keep.  "In my prime, things were much simpler.  There were not so many men vying for the throne, dividing the land into all of these factions. There was one true and proper king and it was not disputed.  Now all these houses are bending the knee to one lord or another, bound by their lieges rather than merit."  He turned to regard Brienne, who had fallen back a bit, staring at the dull metal in her hands rather than focus on the Blackfish's tirade.  "Look at what happened to Renly.  He could barely keep a hold on his men and they imploded before his blood cooled.  They knew.  He had no claim and, what was more dangerous, no predecessor.  Who could truly rally those houses after his death?" 

"Ser Loras-" 

"Loras Tyrell is a pompous twit and if you spent any time with him like it's claimed, you know it well, girl." Brienne refused to look at him, despite feeling his frosty glare, cooling her more than the wintry winds.  Taking her silence for admittance, he went on.  "It's the same with the Lannisters.  Tywin is a force but, should he be taken down, no one will be able to wield his army like him." 

Brienne tried again, continuing on even though Ser Bryndyn opened his mouth to bowl over her words.  "Ser Jaime is a seasoned knight, a tactician, and he has been bred by Lord Tywin to lead." 

"But he won't," the Blackfish snapped.  "He hides behind the Kingsguard, defying his father and his legacy, and thinks himself a knight.  I was there in the Whispering Woods when his arrogance led him right into King Robb's trap.  His pride and bravado make him weak." 

Clutching the heap of swords tightly to her breastplate, Brienne glared at him.  "And yet," she hissed through teeth locked so tightly together, her jaw burned.  "It was his teaching that allowed me to best you now." 

The Blackfish was clearly taken aback, but his surprise was quickly replaced with thinly veiled anger and suspicion.  He reached out, causing Brienne to flinch, though all he did was pull her bundle from her.  "You chose to be a warrior, not a maiden, girl," he warned.  "I advise you to cast any fantasies away and focus on your vows. Duty and honor are the simplest, most important things there are in this life."

With that, Ser Brydnyn strolled away, carrying the blades and clanking as he went, leaving Brienne to stand underneath an archway and wonder.   _Is it so easy?_


	13. The Edge of the Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone that is still reading and supporting this story! One chapter closer to the reunion!
> 
> As usual, here is my love letter to Coraleeveritas. She has been such an amazing source of advice and direction with the new characters that I've introduced during J/B's separation. I've enjoyed writing them but I could have never really gotten into their heads without her help. As always, she's been a constant presence in my writing and in every step of the process of this story. I could not have done this without her!
> 
> Sandwichesyumyum has never failed to be so excited and supportive of what Coralee and I have been working on. I am beyond grateful to have another talented writer look at these chapters and give her input. Her notes give me life and whenever I feel unsure about anything, I always go back and read what she has commented on. And the world is right!
> 
> Finally, I've had a bit of a real life hiccup and these ladies are more than just sources of writing strength, they are also my family. Fate would not have been updated as usual if not for them and tamjlee, putting my heart back together. Tamjlee may not have prior knowledge of the story, but she knows all about what I've been struggling with outside and the love and kindness she has given to me have helped me to keep going. The gift of knowing that a kindred spirit is with me is something I can never repay, but I always try. Thank you for making me feel special and loved!
> 
> Alright, enough of that, on with the show!

The image of his younger brother, bandaged, abandoned, and betrayed became a constant sight behind Jaime’s eyelids.  Tyrion’s words clanged around inside his head as he monotonously completed his duties, melding with Brienne’s voice, indignant with his inaction. He spent his days avoiding his family as much as he could, unsure of this new sense of unease about the machinations of the Lannisters.  Since he had refused to immediately bend to Tywin’s demands, he knew he would have some time before his father sought him out again, but he was grimly surprised with how easy it was to evade Cersei.  When Jaime was not in the White Tower, a place that he did not wish his sister to visit, he was in the training field or on duty.  Joffrey’s bride was often present at those times, which meant that Cersei was most likely sulking in her chambers with a cup of wine.  She was rarely seen without a goblet between her long fingers since he had returned from captivity.  Though Jaime enjoyed watching the muscles of her pale neck work the red liquid down her throat, he hoped that she could control herself with the drink as well as Tyrion did. 

So, when Jaime looked up from the weirwood table in the Round Room, he was dismayed to find Cersei making her way to him.  He immediately stood, pushing away his chair and quickly closing the White Book, moving to meet her before she could seat herself at the table that was meant only for knights of the Kingsguard.  He did not want her there and he did not even want some of his new brothers there, either.  But he knew how to mold men, using power and skill.  He was also coming to realize, though, that somewhere, he had learned how to use the reverence of honor as well, albeit sparingly. 

Cersei stopped and waited while he busied himself with placing the book out of her reach, making Jaime close the distance between them. “Sister,” he strained. “Are you here for politics? Or perhaps much awaited pleasure?” 

“My time always belongs to my son, your king, Jaime,” Cersei sighed, rolling her eyes.  “If you would do as I told you to and help me with the Tyrell girl-“ 

“I don’t want to talk about _any_ Tyrells,” Jaime replied.  “I’ve had quite enough of them.  And I’ve had a sufficient amount of time with her to know she is the least threatening of the family.” 

“She is trying to get between me and Joffrey!” 

“The boy will benefit from being finally detached from suckling at your breast.” 

“Jealous?” Cersei effortlessly shot back. 

“No.” In a flash, Jaime had snatched her arm, squeezing it, making her wince as she felt the pressure through the thick fabrics of her sleeves. Jaime had noticed that as Margery’s dresses had begun disappearing to expose more of her youthful, unblemished skin to the eyes of every hungry man, despite an uninspired Joffrey, Cersei had adorned herself with the armor of more grandiose gowns, draping her form in crisp, thick materials boned with metalwork that outlined her upper body and created dramatic collars.  She was preparing herself for battle, but all Jaime wanted to do was peel away her chain mail and finish what they had started when he first arrived. But, with Tyrion’s accusation still ringing in his ears, the urge to strangle her was just as strong. “I saw our brother, Cersei.” 

She wrenched her elbow from his grasp, smoothing her skirts and looking down her thin nose at him.  “You should have taken _care_ of him as well.” 

“You _knew_ where Father had put him,” Jaime growled, reaching for her again.  She took a step back, keeping her limbs from his grasping fingers. “You _knew_ that he had been injured by one of our _own_.” 

“That is the story that I’ve _heard_ ,” Cersei pouted.  With a few tentative strides forward, she was pressed against his body and Jaime let her hands run up his leather jerkin.  “I was trapped inside the keep, trembling with fear for my children and for my _life_ , Jaime.  There are so many enemies around us and you are the only one I trust. You are the only one who can protect our family.” 

Jaime scoffed, tossing her hands aside. “I _am_ protecting our family.  But I’m starting to wonder if I have to shield its members from each other.” 

“Gods, what has happened to you?” The glint had returned to Cersei’s gaze. He knew the look from years of watching it ghost across his father’s features.  She was determining his usefulness, his malleability, his potential. There was little desire or hunger left for him, save what he could give her in other ways besides warming her bed for a sparse moment.  And what she assessed, she apparently found lacking.  Unfortunately, Jaime felt the same as he began to truly suspect her role in Tyrion’s injuries.  “You are _weak_.” 

“And you are mad.” 

Cersei laughed, the sound echoing in the white washed room before it bounced into the pale tapestries and was swallowed up, leaving them in silence again. “Does that mean you will run your sword through me, too?” 

Not replying, fearing what he would say, he gave his sister his back. He made sure his steps were even and unrushed and his hands that reached out to pick up the White Book were not shaking. She let him go, as he knew she would, and he did not look back. 

At that moment, when he wished for Brienne’s whisperings in his head, she was just as silent as the Round Room.  Perhaps she had nothing to bemoan this time. 

 

In the fortnight that Jaime had spent trying to forge a routine in the soft, malleable metal that struggled to support the new regime, he had not found an opportunity to check on Sansa Stark.  However, when his father announced that in a matter of days the hostage would be wed to Tyrion, who was still struggling to rise from his now comfortable and plush sick bed deep in Maegor’s Holdfast, he immediately made his way to track down the girl. 

He had promised to protect Tyrion, but he, and his brother, knew that there was little Jaime could do against the schemes of their family. Still, his thoughts drifted to the last time that Tyrion had taken a bride and his own misguided part in creating two broken hearts.  _Tysha_.  Brienne hissed it in his ear, the tone he was becoming used to hearing accusing. Disappointed.  Lost. 

He knew that Tyrion would treat Sansa well, but neither would find happiness in their marriage, both held down by the thumb of the Hand. And just as he had a responsibility and a debt to Tyrion, though his brother may never know the extent to which Jaime could never pay it, he had also made a promise to the wench about seeing to Sansa Stark’s safety.  He cursed himself daily for ever uttering the words, but it did little to quell the soft female voice that laced his musings and pushed his feet towards the godswood. 

There were few in the Red Keep that kept to any faith, so the girl was alone, kneeling before the great oak in which the weeping face had been carved and was now partially hidden in smokeberry vines that hugged the giant tree. Her pale yellow gown, stiff with silver embroidery that weaved across the bodice and skipped down a small train, was flared out around her legs, lost in the thick growth of crimson dragon’s breath that spilled out from the trunk, looking like she was wading in a field of blood. 

Sansa Stark turned at the sound of his boots pressing down the final blooms of dying summer flowers as he neared her.  He stopped quickly when he saw her pale blue eyes, spilling clear tears that caught the rays of sunlight.  Her wide gaze filled her face, though it did not nearly capture his attention as much as Brienne’s sapphire stare.  It made her look young and vulnerable, like a lost doe caught in a hunter’s sight. And, instead of rising to greet him, she shrank back further against the tree, lowering her eyes and letting her flaming auburn hair hide her fear.  She clasped her hands in front of her, waiting for him to finally approach. 

Jaime sighed and extracted a handkerchief from under his gauntlet. He moved only far enough towards the girl to lean over and allow her to take it from him.  She retreated with the piece of cloth clutched between her fingers, dabbing at her eyes and not offering a smile or a glance in his direction. He could not blame her for being frightened of the Lord Commander of the men that had abused her, the brother of the Queen Regent that despised her, the uncle of the King that tortured her, the son of the Lannister patriarch that had sealed her fate to the Imp. _Brienne, how do you expect this lost child to trust me?_  

“Your mother visited Renly Baratheon’s camp while I was held there,” he murmured, his voice thundering through the silence, speaking of the only thing he could think a young girl would desire to hear.  _Family_.  

Surprisingly, she did look up, her red lips and full eyes beseeching him to continue. Her slender hands pulled at the white silk of the handkerchief, straining the threads as she twisted it tightly through her long fingers.  Jaime imagined Catelyn Stark had looked much like her daughter at such a young age, but the elder fish had always been a wolf at heart.  This child was nothing but a struggling, gasping trout hooked on the end of a line. 

“She had come, against your brother’s knowledge, to try to convince Renly to send me home in exchange for you and your sister.” 

“Please, Ser,” Sansa’s voice was soft like the breeze that whispered through the leaves.  Tears spilled freely down her pink cheeks.  For a moment, Jaime’s gaze shifted to the weeping face behind the girl, observing him as well. “I-I heard of the madness in the camp, after Lord Renly’s murder…” 

“Though I escaped in the confusion, I have no doubt that Lady Catelyn made it back to the Starks safely.” Jaime watched as the small glimmer of hope that had begun to light up the pale blue eyes leaked out with more tears. Frowning with lips that had started to tremble, Sansa let the watery lock of her gaze break. “I see you take my word as everyone else does…there was a knight of Renly’s Rainbow Guard, a lady who made a connection with your mother.  She fought through the chaos to protect Lady Catelyn.  If you do not believe me, then try to have faith in Lady Brienne of Tarth.” 

Sansa attempted a small smile, though she did not look back up at him. “A lady knight. My sister would have liked that.” 

“My brother would have like her as well, I think,” Jaime snorted. Sansa curled inward a bit at the mention of her betrothed, but he pressed on.  “You have no reason to trust me, my lady, but for you and Tyrion, I would see you safe, however I may do so.” 

A silky curtain of fiery locks slid over the young Stark girl’s face, hiding her sweet features from him, masking her reaction to his words. She had turned back to gaze at the Heart Tree, perhaps looking to find strength in the familiarity. When she replied, however, her words were cold and clipped, chipping at the warmth that had suffused the godswood and their meeting.  She sounded like Cersei, he realized.  She sounded like Catelyn Stark.  She sounded like every other damn highborn woman that could wield pleasantries and courtesies like a blade, save one.  “Your concern is too kind, Ser, but I am counting down the days until I may please my king by marrying the man that he chooses for me.  My wedding will be the happiest moment of my life.” 

Growing angry and frustrated, Jaime snarled at her before he could rein in his tongue. “You should spend your anxious days waiting practicing your lies, my lady. If you remain so transparent, you may be spending your wedding night with your head beside your father’s.” 

At the sharp gasp from Sansa, and spurred on by his own shock and the growing sound of Brienne’s disappointment within him, Jaime turned on his heel and stalked out of the godswood, practically fleeing from the girl’s misery and his failure. 

When he reached the landing at the entrance, he groaned audibly at the sight of Varys standing stoically to the side, hands folded in the volumes of the sleeves of his robe and slick bald head shining in the faint sunlight. The Master of Whispers offered him a tiny grin and a bow, clearly having heard the conversation he had tried to have with Sansa Stark.  If his obvious pleasure was supposed to calm Jaime, it did just the opposite, sending a shiver down his spine at the sight, worried that he had just thrown himself into the Spider’s web. 

 

Giving the powdered man only a nod of his head, Jaime breezed past him, continuing up the steps back to the Keep.  He heard the soft hiss of folds of expensive fabrics whisking across the stones behind him and called, without pausing, “What may I possibly feed to you, Lord Varys, that will make me no longer of interest to you and your spies?” 

“Oh, it seems that I should have been finding an interest in you long before your most welcome return, Lord Commander,” the Spider simpered. “I had not known the Kingslayer was capable of such change.” 

“I am the same man I always was,” Jaime growled, increasing his pace in the hopes of fleeing the mirror that Varys was trying to make him face. 

“Do you think your family would agree?”  Varys replied just as Jaime was ducking into a darkened corridor. Huffing through his nose in frustration, he turned to regard the plump Spider who settled his robes once more, his irritating smile pushing up his cheeks.  “Though I suppose your aunt Genna may not be so surprised at finding you comforting a traitor.  She could never see Twyin in you and now, I would have to agree.” He sighed dramatically, whipping up a frown, that was almost a pout, to replace the pleasant smile. There was a dangerous gleam in his beady eyes that spoke of things Jaime did not want to know. “You are clearly more like your uncle Kevan.  Such a pity for us both.” 

“Yes, Kevan never did fancy your use and I find I have little need for it as well,” Jaime snapped.  He made to turn away again, but fat fingers darted out surprisingly fast from beneath Varys’s sleeves, a strong grip locking around his gauntlet. 

“Oh but I can be so helpful, if our goals are the same.  I want what is best for this land, don't you, Ser Jaime?” 

With more force than he had anticipated, Jaime wrenched his arm away and watched as the accosting hand slithered back into the den of shadows hidden in the overhanging sleeves.  “I want what is best for my family,” he said cautiously. 

“Ah, that is the answer I would have expected you to give a year ago but now I'm concerned I underestimated you,” Varys raised a pale eyebrow, shaking his head as if in disappointment for his failings.  “Should you not be more preoccupied with the safety of your... _nephew_ than his former betrothed?” 

Jaime laughed mirthlessly, daring the Spider to make another strike with what he may know about Lannister secrets.  “According to my father, she will be family soon enough.” 

“Unless _you_ can help it? I doubt your father would be pleased with your sudden interest in the Stark girl.” Jaime could not help but frown at that.  Tywin clearly wanted to punish Tyrion by forcing him to marry, especially to a girl that was nothing more than a hostage.  But he could not discern how he would also benefit from the match and nothing that Tywin Lannister did was not for a gain.  “And what would your sister think of the Lord Commander rumored to have courted a- 

“Dare to finish that, Spider!” Jaime hissed, as he almost heard her huff at his irritation, like she had done every time he had grown bored of her stalling tactics in their clearing. _Can I not be allowed to forget her?_  

Recoiling from Jaime and putting his pudgy hands up in surrender, Varys stuttered, “I-I just thought you should know, S-Ser, that your regard for Lady Brienne is _quite_ a conversation for Ser Tytos when he is in his cups. Most would not think twice of his more…colorful convictions, but hearing you speak of the lady yourself does make me wonder the extent of your alliance.” 

“I was able to escape thanks to her distraction, that is all,” Jaime said, taking a step towards the Spider so that he could look down upon the man, ignoring the way his perfume sent his stomach rolling.  He had no doubt that Varys was only putting on a mummer’s farce concerning his fear for anyone, but Jaime would not let him think he could be so easily played.  The topic of Brienne, uttered from the rosy lips of the Spider, sprouted beads of sweat at Jaime’s temple and he could not seem to stop his fists from clenching and unclenching. He wanted to steal back her name from the man, keep it bottled up for himself so that her voice only haunted his own steps. 

“Of course, of course…though even Lord Quenten has mentioned, um, the _Kingslayer’s whore_.” Varys tilted his head, watching Jaime shrewdly. 

Though he tried to control the twitch of the vein that shot through his neck, Jaime could not seem to stop his teeth from gnashing together, a throaty snarl gurgling up his gullet, sounding like a dying man choking on his own blood. “I will remind you, and my men, only once that the Lady Brienne is to be mentioned with the respect that a highborn lady deserves.  _But_ , other than that, she is of no concern of mine.” _Had Cersei heard of Brienne? Is that why she was being so cold?_  

“That's a relief to hear, what with the news that she follows Lady Catelyn to the Twins for the wedding of Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey.” Jaime’s proximity did nothing to stir the terror that Varys had performed only moments ago. He simply tutted and sighed and smiled gently up at Jaime.  

Despite his best attempts, Jaime had never been as skilled at playing the game his siblings excelled at and it was clear now that his ineptitude had just thrown him right into the center of the web.  He breathed deeply, trying to calm his heart, which had begun hammering in his chest at the thought of Brienne.  Now he knew that she had remained with the Starks, clearly swearing to the mother wolf rather than chasing recklessly after her young pup, it was for the better. _She will be safer by Catelyn Stark_.  

Ignoring, his companion’s clear ire, Varys continued, “It is unfortunate that your brother will have to console a grieving bride soon.” 

Another shift in the topic made Jaime reel, his head still feeling light from matters of the wench being uttered in the Keep and not just in his head. “What more could Sansa Stark grieve for?” 

Varys slipped for a flash, a vicious smile painting across his chubby face, transforming him from appearing like prey to being the predator that he truly was.  “My apologies, Lord Commander! I had thought for certain your father would share his plans with you, if not formulated them with your approval.” 

“Spider,” Jaime snarled.  “If you do not speak plainly this instant, we shall see how long a web you can weave from atop the highest tower in the Keep.” 

Varys chuckled, hardly trying to maintain his innocent mask anymore. “You must have known that the Freys allied with your family the moment Robb Stark broke their marriage agreement.” Jaime crossed his arms.  He had not even given a thought to the Freys.  “And I hear the Boltons have also sworn to the King.”

 _Seven hells_. “Most of the Stark army is going to be inside the Twins...” 

“Surrounded by enemies,” Varys moaned.  “It is going to be such a tragedy.” _Yes_ , Jaime agreed, it was going to be a massacre of wolves. They would not have their final days in battle as many of them deserved.  That glory would be ripped from them like the knives slicing across their throats and running through their chests as they sat and drank and ate the salted bread of their brothers, lulled into trust and comfort. Their blood would pool and run together, washed away by the Trident before any man could draw his blade. For a knight, it was the worst way to die.  

“Not for us, of course,” Varys rambled on, waving his arms, encased in cloth, like banners snapping in the air, whipping behind men as they rode into combat. “There will be little stopping the Lannisters once The King of the North is dead.” Robb Stark would be cut down by those he had foolishly trusted, trapped within the fortress of the Twins.  And knowing Tywin and his allies, they would not stop with the boy’s head. They would take down every Stark and every single one loyal to them, determined to wipe them all out in one fell swoop.  _Brienne_.  “And what with the heir to Winterfell, which would fall to Sansa after her brother’s death, wedded to a Lannister, all that needs to be done is to bring down Stannis, which shouldn't be much of a problem I would imagine.” _Brienne._   “It would seem that Westeros will once again be secured by your family-“ 

“Find Addam Marbrand and tell him to gather five loyal men to him and have him meet me discreetly by the stables.” The words tumbled out of Jaime’s mouth but he heard little of what he or the Spider had said.  He had walked into the trap and he would let himself be wound up tight and played like a puppet if it meant finding Brienne. There was no doubt that Varys knew exactly where she was and what she was being led into. 

 _Stubborn, noble wench.  I told you to open your eyes._  

Now he was going to have to find some way to weave through the throng of Starks and Freys to pull out one large, mulish woman.  There was no stopping the slaughter that was to occur, but Jaime could not stand idly by knowing that he had a chance to find Brienne. She was supposed to have been safer with the Starks than she would have been with him in King’s Landing. Now, he was torn between anger at her for not realizing she was heading into a trap and fury at himself for not being more selfish and demanding that she stay by his side. 

“Of course, Lord Commander,” Varys finally offered him a respectful bow. “But perhaps I could persuade Sansa Stark to join your, ahem, afternoon ride?” 

“What am I going to do with a maiden where we both know I'm going, Varys?” 

“I dare say she has a better chance of survival and freedom with you than awaiting her wedding day in King’s Landing, wouldn't you agree?” 

“And what of her groom?” he demanded.  “I’m not leaving Tyrion.” 

Varys sighed.  “In that, you have no choice.  Save your lady. Save the girl. And I will watch over your brother.” 

It was all he could do.  Jaime did not want to abandon Tyrion, but Brienne was facing the greater peril. Itching to leave and on the brink of praying that he would not be too late, he was ready to end this conversation as quickly as he could, choosing not to dwell on the decision. She could not die. He would not let it happen. He may be swallowed up in the lion’s maw but Brienne would come out whole and pure.  “And when I return without my brother’s betrothed?” 

“Return?” the Spider breathed, sending a waft of mint up Jaime’s nostrils. “Hmm, yes, well, I will deal with that when you, ah, return.” Varys cast an annoyed glance at him before shrugging. “Perhaps you should find your sister before you leave? She was quite upset when you ran off last time without a proper goodbye and luckily I know just where to find her.”

 _Brienne._ Jaime sighed. He would have to find Cersei first. “Of course you know. Lead the way.”

  

It was a long climb from the godswood to the top of Maegor’s Holdfast where the Queen’s chambers were located.  Jaime should have spent the time wondering why Varys felt the need to escort him when anyone knew the way.  But instead, he was grateful to simply follow the rich fabrics of the Spider’s robes as they swept across the dusty stones.  He was aware that they were taking an unknown, but likely quicker, route and for that, Jaime was grateful.  His feet were heavy as they moved farther inside the Keep, putting more distance between him and the gates.  He wanted to ride out that very instant, before it was too late.  He wanted to plow through the Starks and Freys and lay eyes on her again, to see for himself that she was safe and there was still some hope lasting in the world. 

So lost in the deep blue that he was only just beginning to realize he had been drowning in for months, Jaime practically bowled the fat man in front of him over when he stopped abruptly, sending powder and perfume wafting through the air. He shot out an arm to steady Varys, frowning down at him as he adjusted the folds of cloth. 

“Take the set of stairs to our left.” The Master of Whispers nodded his shaved head towards a small recess containing a set of narrow steps that Jaime had not noticed.  “It will lead you out into a deep alcove that is far down the hall from your sister’s rooms. I will wait here for your return.” 

“I do not need an escort, Varys,” Jaime spat, not liking the thought of him spying on his rare time alone with his sister. 

Varys tsked and batted his eyelashes.  “Do you really think that I will find out something I do not already know, Lord Commander? Still, I have no desire to be clinging to the walls for this particular parting.  I will wait here.” 

Sighing, Jaime took the stairs as quickly as he could, skipping steps in his haste to reach his sister.  He wanted to hold her tightly and run his lips all over her soft skin while his hands tangled in the silk of her golden hair.  He would capture her scent and her touch and hold it close to him as he rode out. When he left the Keep and Cersei, this time, he would not go with a single regret like he had done during his captivity. 

A breathy, familiar giggle bounced off the cold gray stones of the stairway. It was followed by a sigh and a masculine grunt, overwhelming Jaime, still hidden from view, with memories of the past, of finding Robert drunkenly pulling his beautiful sister down on the bed, of his ribald jokes in court as he reached out to cup her firm behind, ignoring her rights of propriety as a woman and as his queen, of his hands laying claim to everything Jaime lived for. 

The faint shift of armor and the whisper of fabric against skin pulled him back to the moment and the shock that it could be happening all over again, before he began lunging for the furthest step he could reach, ignoring the creaking from the plates of his suit.  He burst out of the alcove, fearing and knowing what he would find.  

The hallway held no windows, the last being carved in the heavy walls around the corner, lighting the way to the Queen’s chambers and casting the rest of the passage in shadows.  At one point, this had been a quiet and hidden entrance for servants to access the stately rooms unnoticed, but royalty had been less trusting over the years and no king or queen wanted to have retainers sneak up on them unknowingly.  So, the corridor had been forgotten and abandoned. It was the perfect place for a couple to sneak off to, and one that he had pulled Cersei into many times before. 

Now it was being used to conceal the Queen Regent and another member of the Kingsguard.  Ser Osney Kettleblack was groping the sweet, known curves of his sister, one hand lost in her loosened corset, his grubby fingers pressing out the stiff linen as he squeezed the flesh of one of her breasts.  Jaime was only supposed to have shared that flesh with his children, when they had needed to pull milk from the pebbly nipples.  He had not even had to worry much about Robert being sober enough to find a mound to manhandle. 

Kettleblack had buried his young face in Cersei’s long neck, making a clearly poor attempt at nibbling at the taut skin.  By the sound of his grunts and chuckles and the way he was trying to thrust into the voluminous dress the queen had donned, the _knight_ was clearly enjoying himself.  The freedom with which he could accost Jaime’s sister, the mother of his children, the only woman he had ever loved, sent red bleeding into Jaime’s vision. He wanted to see the color spill from this man, to watch the wicked light dim from his eyes as he looked up at Jaime in fear.  He was not a king and he was not her husband.  There would be no reason to stop Jaime from sliding his sword through the man. 

But it was the expression upon Cersei’s face, right before she heard his armor clang and turned to find him looking upon them, that stopped the rage momentarily. She appeared bored, green eyes rolling in her head, sighing in exasperation, which Kettleblack seemed to take as encouragement.  She only laughed and pretended to enjoy the fondling when his head came up to regard her. But it was clear she had done this before, perhaps with other men, and that she let them play her body so that she could play them.  _Like she has done with me_.        

And then she spotted Jaime, rooted to the stone, shaking as his life crumbled into nothingness and he was left bare.  A fool, dressed in the motely of white armor, staining a pure cloak, wrapped in its lies.  He had done it all for innocence, the holiness of their love and the virtue of his position. And she had let him walk into the shadows, dragged down by her adultery. 

Frantically, Cersei clawed at Kettleblack, shoving him away from her, though she only succeeded in extracting his foul hand from her cleavage and having him wrap his arms around her small waist.  She beat viciously at him, blindly trying to find a hold to shake him off, her wide eyes never leaving Jaime’s.  They had shared so many looks between each other, having whole conversations while they were surrounded by court, locked in their duties as knight and queen. Now, Jaime watched her try to form some sort of excuse, to hide the truth that he could never forget, that would haunt the backs of his eyelids for the rest of his life. And he knew that she could read the growing fury and utter pain that was blossoming in his chest like a blade running into his heart.  He wanted to kill Kettleblack.  But he had no idea before that moment that he was capable of the raw need to strangle his twin. 

In three strides, Jaime had reached the pair, tearing his gaze from Cersei and moving out of her reach as she tried to grab him.  He yanked at Kettleblack’s white cloak, wrenching the man away from his queen.  As the man’s face was plucked from Cersei’s neck and snapped back, Jaime pulled the hand that was not balled up in wretched white behind him.  He took his time curling his fingers so tightly into his palm that he felt his skin underneath his gauntlet break, just like the rest of him, and waited until his muscles could not surge anymore with tense energy. Using that single, eternal moment, Jaime memorized the horror and shock upon the Kettleblack’s handsome features before he used the force of every burning, weeping part of him to turn the man’s face into a ruin.  Even through the glove, Jaime felt teeth fall of from Kettleblacks’ gums and heard, in the shattering silence of his misery, the snap of his nose and the crunch of his cheekbones.  Blood seeped through the clenched fingers of his fist, easily weaving through the tiny white and gold metal scales that were plaited around his knuckles, forever staining the glistening pieces. 

By the time Kettleblack’s body smacked to the stone ground, his cloak spilling around him, he was already unconscious.  The blood covering most of his broken face bubbled around his mouth, unfortunately indicating that the man was still alive and breathing. Jaime desperately wanted to unsheathe his sword and end that before he held his bloodied blade to Cersei’s throat and demand from her the names of the others.  He knew there were others.  But there was little satisfaction in disfiguring the man that had dared to touch his lover.  He had been invited to roam her body after all, more than Jaime had been since he had returned. 

He hardly felt Cersei weakly tugging at his arm, snarling and hissing at him, berating him for his foolishness and how he could ruin everything she had worked so hard to put right.  When her angry voice and soft hands finally seeped through the cloud of loss and rage that had settled over him as he watched Kettleblack take in shallow gulps of air, he rounded on her.  He was desperate to see her cower from him and look remorseful, to beg for his forgiveness, but she simply released her grip to pat down her skirts and fix her bodice. 

“What do you think you’re doing, attacking a brother of the Kingsguard?” she practically shrieked, though she kept her voice low enough not to make it around the corner of their secluded hallway. 

“What are _you_ doing letting him _touch_ you,” Jaime bit back, barely able to speak above a harsh rasp.  His throat felt like he had been screaming for years and his eyes burned like he had already shed all of his tears. 

“I need a knight that will help me and clearly, you are no longer on my side.” 

“I warn you, Cersei, I do not wish to play your games right now.” Jaime took a step towards her and she did back up a step upon seeing the look in his eyes this time, though her chin remained tilted and proud. “I give you everything, I sacrifice everything, _happily_ , to be by you and only you.  How could you do this?” 

“How could you _betray_ _me_? You had your chance to kill the Imp and instead, you give him the better treatment so that he will survive!  He promised to go after my children, Jaime. I have to protect _my children_!” 

Jaime looked back down at Kettleblack.  “Tyrion would never hurt this family.” 

Cersei scoffed.  “You place more trust in that little monster than you do me.” 

“Clearly, I was not wrong in doing so!” Jaime kicked Kettleblack, who groaned. 

“You brought this on yourself, Jaime,” Cersei sighed, crossing her arms and moving away from the body and her brother.  “Before you left, you would have done anything for me.”

 _Before. Before I lost in the Whispering Woods. Before my hands were bound with tedium. Before I saw who I used to be reflected in an innocent girl’s eyes._   

Cersei gestured gracefully at Kettleblack between them. “ _He_ was so eager to help me end my problems with the rose bitch and the Imp.” 

“Is that all it took to have you spread your legs?” 

“Not all of us are allowed to brandish swords and challenge their enemies to combat,” she sniffed.  It reminded Jaime that, sometimes, he had thought that she had looked upon his blade and his armor with more longing that she did to his person.  It had been so much easier when they were children and he could simply shuck off his clothing and hand it to her, letting her taste her freedom in his skin.  She wanted a puppet in mail so that she could pull the strings of a knight.  But when his threads had frayed in time, she easily cut them and picked up a more malleable doll.  “A woman and a _queen_ must have her own tools to control, to rule.  If you had just helped me, Jaime-“ 

“If I had just remained useful to you, you mean.” 

“Yes.” The word was as sharp and as painful as a dagger.  It was a weapon that Cersei had learned to wield in place of a knife and it cut through the wrath that had fueled him in that moment, sapping him of the will to continue standing in that shadowed corridor, watching everything that he had lived for pool at his feet like Kettleblack’s white cloak soaking up his blood. 

He turned away, not bearing to look at the woman who was supposed to be his other half any longer.  His eyes scanned the corner, finding the stairway and knowing that Varys was waiting. _Curse him for this_. 

“And I have no more of need for you either, sister.” Without glancing back at her, Jaime headed towards the alcove, every step that he took that she did not call him back to her setting a new course and direction in Jaime’s life. He was buried in the mire of lies and subterfuge and he would have gladly allowed it to fill his lungs and choke on his last breath.  But far from the ashes of his family shone a sapphire gem, pure and clear, calling to him to enter the den of wolves to pull it out, to hold and preserve the only innocence he would ever look upon.


	14. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me during this J/B separation. It was very much needed and this chapter sets more of the pieces for the rest of the story. I hope you all have enjoyed this part! The next bit has been fun to write and it marks another shift in the story, where it's more divergence. So, enjoy this last chapter of the separation!
> 
> Coraleeveritas did a lot of work on this chapter. It was hard for me to write as Brienne and the Starks just were not flowing for me. But Lady Dacey is very much an ode to my dear beta and I love writing her. Thank you, Coralee, for working with me, supporting me, and making me a better author and person!
> 
> I always have to thank Sandwichesyumyum for taking the time to read these chapters and provide invaluable feedback for myself and Coralee. She is a joy and a light in my life that makes me smile every day!

The reunion between mother and son was not what Brienne had expected ~~,~~ after hearing Lady Catelyn speak of King Robb. After his return she was sent to Lord Hoster’s study to wait with the Blackfish and Ser Edmure, both of whom were stony and silent as they smoldered in their ire at being banished from the King’s war court. No one sat, but Ser Edmure paced the stone floor like an impatient child while Ser Brynden turned his back to the room, looking out the tall windows to stare at the Red Fork. Having no one else to turn to, Lady Catelyn arched a questioning eyebrow at Brienne, who replied with her own frown of disapproval. 

When the doors finally opened, King Robb was not alone, but flanked by a large group of people consisting of ladies, lords, and knights.  Though Brienne had never seen the King of the North, she recognized the brooding countenance and hard build of a northerner, though he had the rich red curls and bright blue eyes of his mother.  He carried the air of a leader, letting the others crash and drift in the wake of his steps as he made his way towards Lady Catelyn.  

The party fell back to hover near the entrance, but a young, sinewy girl followed the king, reaching out to wrap a hand around his furs.  Brienne, standing so close to her charge, heard the soft gasp escape Lady Catelyn as she regarded the child that hung so easily on her son’s arm. 

“Mother,” King Robb greeted with a warm smile. 

Lady Catelyn bobbed a curtsey and Brienne, being in the periphery, offered a bow.  The movement caught the king’s eye and he spared a moment to take in his mother’s sworn shield.  He opened his mouth, meaning to speak to her, but Lady Catelyn stepped in.  “Your Grace.  And who may I have the pleasure of addressing, My Lady?” 

There was a flicker of uncertainty, turning back the years so that he looked like a young, worried boy.  But the image was quickly forced away and with hardened determination, King Robb presented the young woman to his mother. “Lady Catelyn Stark, please meet my wife, Queen Jeyne Westerling.” Out of the corner of her gaze, Brienne noted that Ser Edmure and the Blackfish did not seem to be shocked by her presence, though they were studying the girl, who had dull brown eyes, drooping brunette curls, and a sweet face, with keen interest. 

Lady Catelyn performed nobly and admirably when faced with such a jolt.  The rest of the Westerling ~~s~~ family, who were each introduced by King Robb in turn, did not seem to notice how rigid she stood, nor how she refused to look at her family while she warmly greeted the newest members.  But Brienne felt the chilling rage sweep off her in waves, making her shiver as she followed the skirts of her lady.  She spared little time studying the Westerlings since Lady Catelyn appeared to be reading every emotion and word they offered.  Instead, she watched Ser Edmure continue to pace, stopping every few steps to shoot more curious glances at Queen Jeyne. The Blackfish had finally turned from the window, but he lounged on the sill, glowering between his two nephews. King Robb did not hide his displeasure at being regarded thus, though he smiled warmly at his wife when she turned her pretty face to him, unaware of the tension that pulled the walls of the great room in to hug them all in uncomfortable silence. 

When the Westerlings had been ushered out of the study, Lady Catelyn wasted no time on rounding on her son.  “What is the meaning of this?” 

“Now, Cat-“ the Blackfish started in his grating voice. 

“I have a right to be upset, Uncle,” Lady Catelyn snapped.  “How is it that everyone seemed to know about this except for me? And _no one_ thought to remind Robb of the implications of betraying a vow to the Freys.” 

Brienne frowned.  She vaguely recalled that in order to maintain an alliance with the house that held the Twins, King Robb had promised to tie their families with a marriage. But while Lady Catelyn was horrified that her son would break his word, King Robb did not seem wrought with guilt. 

“We will find other ways to make it up to the Freys,” the king replied evenly.  “Queen Jeyne healed my wounds after I defended her home and was there to…comfort me when I heard about Bran and Rickon, Mother.” Lady Catelyn tsked angrily and turned away. “I did what was right by marrying her-“ 

“You shouldn’t have _had_ to do it at all!” Lady Catelyn snapped. 

Breathing in to calm himself, King Robb took a step towards her, raising an accusatory finger.  “And what do I find when I come back? I am told that you went to Renly’s camp with my hostages to persuade him to free the Kingslayer! Now we have lost five Lannister prisoners, Jaime Lannister included.” 

“I have to get my children back, Robb,” Lady Catelyn pleaded.  “You and the girls are all I have left.” 

“And with Father gone, _you_ are all _I_ have left,” he replied.  “You could have been killed when Renly was murdered.  And you had no right to be there, as my mother _or_ as my advisor.” 

“What’s done is done, Your Grace,” Blackfish tried again.  “Cat was desperate and she made a mistake.  I could say the same about you returning with a wife that is _not_ a Frey.” 

Brienne expected King Robb to berate his great uncle for speaking to him like a child, but he remained silent. Perhaps when the other lords were present, such meetings were held with more formality, but Brienne was witnessing the council of family.  She was not so shocked, then, when Ser Edmure snorted at the Blackfish. 

All eyes turned to him and he quickly painted on an eager grin.  “Shall we discuss our victories now, Your Grace?” 

Thankfully no one was looking at Brienne since she could not hide her wince.  The Blackfish laughed mirthlessly and King Robb rounded on his uncle while Lady Catelyn frowned sympathetically.  Ser Edmure realized that this was not going to be the exchanging of courageous tales of battle he had hoped, but he still did not see his folly. 

“Victories?” King Robb roared. “There are no victories since you took it upon yourself to move without my order!” 

“But,” Ser Edmure grasped.  “But, Tywin was making for Riverrun.” 

“As I had _planned_.” King Robb threw up his hands in frustration before scrubbing a palm through his coarse auburn beard.  It made him appear older than his years of six and ten, but the attempt to do so only displayed his true youth.  In time, he may have learned from his naivety, and rigid pride and honor, to be a formidable king, but Brienne was becoming frightfully aware of how inexperienced he was. “My greatest problem is my _family_ , not the enemy,” he grumbled.  “My mother is sneaking around, trying to trade hostages and my uncle thinks he is a greater tactician than his king.  But our foes are doing exactly what I had planned for them.” 

Brienne silently agreed with him, but made sure that her expression remained blank as the king’s gaze momentarily swept past her, the young man more interested in learning if any further treachery lurked behind the blue eyes of his relatives than studying his mother’s sworn shield. He did not ask anything else of them, though, preferring to come to his own conclusions, leaving Brienne to delve deeper into worried thoughts that were taking on a distinctively familiar tone. 

The settling silence held dismissal and Brienne moved behind Lady Catelyn, ready to leave the room with the other Tullys. However, as Ser Brynden pulled apart the doors, King Robb called to her. “Lady Brienne,” he barked. “A moment.” 

Hesitantly, Brienne paused to look back at Lady Catelyn, unsure if she was seeking permission or to be saved.  But it seemed that after the exhausting conversation with her son, Lady Catelyn was loathe to deny or argue anymore with the boy who was trying to fight away from leaning on his mother.  So, she inclined her head, suggesting to her shield that she was to obey the king above all others. 

As Lady Catelyn and her brother and uncle left, a young woman slipped past them, closing the doors behind her. Brienne was shocked to find her in armor, dented and worn as if it had been in battle.  The way she moved in it, gracefully cutting the distance between her and King Robb, she appeared to have worn it often and comfortably. There was a light spiked mace and a sword strapped low to hips which swelled out from a slim waist that was pronounced even through the rigid armor.  

It was a surprise to find another woman allowed to fight, but the similarity between Brienne and the girl, who looked to be around her own age, ended at their choice in dress.  While Brienne was often mistaken for a man or dismissed for being an ugly woman, there would never be any doubt that King Robb’s guard was not only a lady, but high born and pretty.  She did not flaunt a sexuality like Queen Margaery or balance the elegant beauty of Lady Catelyn, but her soft eyes and plump lips made her look inviting, despite the scowl that tugged at her unblemished skin as she regarded Brienne just as intently as she watched her in return. 

Under the scrutiny of the girl, Brienne felt the blood rise to her face, knowing the red splotches that would turn her freckles to the color of mud would only heighten her repulsiveness. But there was no further turn of the other woman’s face to indicate she was disgusted by the blush, though King Robb’s frown deepened as he surveyed her as well. 

He reached out his hand, not sparing a glance to his guard as he continued to watch Brienne and she persisted to shrink under their dueling gazes.  She had not even noticed that the girl was carrying another sword in her hand, one that glittered in the afternoon light slanting into the room.  Held in the firm clutch of the girl, the gilded hilt and ornate scabbard looked even more absurd than when Brienne had clutched it when dressing King Renly. The sight of his sword sent a twisting in her gut and she bit back a protest when King Robb took hold of it. It was only for a moment, though, using the weight of the encrusted weapon to slam it down heavily on the table next to him, the thunderous sound echoing in the study and thrumming through her chest. 

"Thank you, Lady Dacey," he nodded to the woman, finally acknowledging her. 

The girl gave him a curt nod, but Brienne caught the flash of a smile as Lady Dacey walked past her, taking a position against the door.  Brienne gave her a final glance, noting how Lady Dacey tried to set her gaze far away, melting into the stone and wooden bookshelves, removing herself from a conversation that was not her’s to hear.  But Brienne knew she would listen nonetheless, her time in the Rainbow Guard providing her with similar opportunities to act as eyes and ears for her King whenever he had need. 

"I found this in my chambers upon arriving, Lady Brienne," King Robb said when she had turned back to him. "I was told my mother placed it there as a gift from you." 

Brienne fidgeted at that.  She had not intended to have it be a means to single herself out. It was simply supposed to be a way of ridding herself of the memories held in its faceted stones. A part of her had wanted to keep the sword for herself, bundle it up and transport it with her wherever she went, bringing it out to caress in the quiet hours of the night.  The hilt could be cut away and, once the gems had been removed, melted down into something lighter and simpler.  She could make it into a sword that would be useful in battle. But while she yearned to have the only bit left of her king close to her, she knew it would also keep the nightmares seeping into her sleep, as well.  The blade was tainted with the blood of her fellow knights. And Jaime had probably used it to cut down more Baratheon bannermen as he tried to escape with the Lannister hostages.  No matter how much her heart cried for her to hold on to King Renly’s memory, his sword only contained the ghosts of his death.  It was time she let it go.  

"I had it with me when Lady Catelyn and I fled King Renly's camp and thought it would be of use to you, Your Grace." 

King Robb arched a thick eyebrow and Brienne knew she had spoken ill.  She was here for judgment, every word she uttered tipping the scales of her sentence. But she did not know what wrong she could have committed to be assessed.  "You thought I would find this ridiculous trinket an adequate weapon on the battlefield?" 

"N-no," she stuttered, cursing herself for bringing the sword when she had known as well as he did that it could only ever be an ornamental tool and would be useless for fighting. It may have killed Renly just as well as the shadow, had he ever been able to wield it. But though she knew she could not keep it with her, she would not allow it to collect dust in some storage room in the keep.  Jaime had given it to her, after all.  "It could be melted down and the gems used for trade." Despite being impractical, her throat still went dry at the thought of the destruction of her king's battle sword. 

King Robb frowned, crossing his arms and peering down at the sword on the table.  Sighing, he scrubbed a calloused hand through his rough beard.  “We need all the steel and trade items we can get these days.” He looked back up at her, light eyes regarding her just as they had with the weapon, weighing her own worth as well.  “If my mother was not so sure of your loyalty, I would not have thought to allow you in this camp, Lady Brienne.  You were present for your king’s death, rumored to have befriended the Kingslayer, and refuse to bend the knee to my house.” 

“No one, save Stannis, could have stopped King Renly’s murder, Your Grace,” Brienne replied cautiously. “I was only Ser Jaime’s sparring partner, approved by the king, and that was before I became a member of the Rainbow Guard.  It was Ser Jaime that helped me escape and find Lady Catelyn.” She paused, gnawing anxiously on her lips, wondering how much she should say.  “If I bent the knee to you, it would be as a representative of Tarth and without my father’s approval, I can do no such thing.  But I beg Your Grace to allow me to remain serving your mother.” 

The king looked tired and wary of her, conflictions warring on his young face and hollowing his sallow eye sockets. Brienne had to admit that she had thought that the Starks would be the best choice for the throne, but this boy was no match for the Lannisters, leading her to wonder who could possibly take down all the lions.  _Who could really be considered just enough to rule over all?_ But she shook such notions away.  Those were thoughts for Jaime to toy with, like a cat idly playing with a string. She may have been highborn, but she was from a small, unimportant island.  She was also a soldier.  Her tasks were to protect her home and fight for what was right and good, not what was easy. Robb Stark might deserve the throne, mostly because he did not want it, and his mother deserved to see peace, though it would never come to pass with her son in any position of power. All Brienne knew to do was to protect her lady and know that she was laying her sword before a woman, and a family, who belonged to one of the honorable and righteous houses that she had always imagined noble lords and ladies to be. What had changed since she had gathered such perceptions of nobility was the realization that those traits were not enough to allow them to survive. 

“I will have to trust my mother’s judgment and accept your services as her shield, Lady Brienne,” the king finally replied. “But Tarth would be wise to ally with me.  You know of my success on the battlefield and my chances of being able to take the throne, if needed.” 

Brienne frowned, looking at the sword that was too bejeweled and heavy to use in combat, something that any seasoned knight would know. But King Renly had only seen its opulence and the way the light of victory would strike its jewels, gleaming in his reign.  She turned to the boy that held it, the only king who had fought and won every battle, but he would be blinded by glories as well soon enough.  “I will send a letter to my father.” She bowed respectfully, knowing Lord Selwyn would be pleased to know she was safe, but would have no inclination to align their house with one on the opposite side of Westeros. She did not feel the need to try to convince him either. 

“Good,” King Robb said, sighing a bit with resignation. As soon as the matter was settled, his eyes slipped dismissively from Brienne, something she noticed he did with his other men.  His attention fell to other person in the room, whom he seemed to have forgotten about but Brienne had been keenly aware of throughout their conversation.  “Lady Dacey, would you escort Lady Brienne to the armory to ensure that she has all the supplies she needs?” 

Lady Dacey eyed her warily as Brienne strode to her side.  When they met, they both walked through the study doors, Lady Dacey slightly ahead to guide Brienne. She had not needed to borrow any items from the armory upon arrival, though she had been curious about what kind of stock Riverrun held.  Despite her crisp blue armor and the large sword that had been made just for Brienne, Lady Dacey was surveying her, taking stock. 

"You could use a new hauberk," she finally said, slicing though the silence with her surprisingly deep but lilting voice. "And I'm sure your padding is worn. We have enough leather to supply you so that you're more comfortable." 

Brienne had to admit that the metal from the plating was beginning to rub against the underside of her arm and inner thigh. The thought of a fresh doublet was a welcome relief.  "My thanks, My lady." 

"You can call me Dacey.  There's no time for courtesies on the battlefield." She spoke with a hint of pride and tilted her head slightly as if to dare Brienne to challenge her experience fighting.  But the suggestion that Lady Dacey did indeed serve King Robb as a soldier was more thrilling than suspect.  "How many battles have you fought?" 

Lady Dacey smiled, making her look even younger and prettier than before.  Brienne felt certain she had a number of suitors and lesser men fawning for her hand or her bed in the camp.  "I have been at King Robb's side for every one of his victories," she said with a sigh that was better suited for a maiden dreaming of her knight than a soldier. 

"That is quite impressive," Brienne replied, nodding her head in acknowledgment.  "The king is wise to recognize your skills." 

"Yes.  He's not like the others.” She gave a knowing, secretive look towards Brienne, one that spoke of frustrations and disappointments.  “He knows a lady is so much more than a bearer of heirs. He has his queen for that, but I'm the one he calls on to when he needs to protect the North, who he trusts to protect _himself_.  He knows I would die for him."

 _You would die so that he may return to his soft, sweet wife.  That is what a man yearns for, not the lady clad in armor by his side_. "King Robb is fortunate to have one so loyal," Brienne offered as she struggled to find something more to say.  Despite seeming to have found one of the few women in Westeros who would don mail rather than skirts, Brienne was still at a loss, finding a lady more than a knight. 

"He is," Lady Dacey said, frowning at her. "Wasn't Lord Renly the same?" 

It was a shock when Brienne found herself annoyed at a comparison of herself and King Renly to Lady Dacey and King Robb. Lady Dacey was following her legacy and trying to appear defiant and bold by wrapping herself in metal over silks. But that was not what seemed to have driven her to such a strong alliance with the Young Wolf.  She had done it for love.  Yet, had she put back on her gowns, she would have had a much better chance to wed King Robb than she did by vowing to fight by his side. "He was always kind to me." The words that Brienne had held to her heart now tasted like smoke in her mouth.  _What was kindness in this world?_ She tried to find a more benign topic. “Your family must be very proud." 

Lady Dacey snorted.  "Was yours?" 

"No, but my father did not stop me," Brienne admitted as she fell back a step so that they could travel down the tight, winding staircase that led into a courtyard. 

"I'm a Mormont," she said proudly over her shoulder. "The women of my house are strong and fearless. My father was not pleased I clearly followed in the path of my mother, but she would hear none of it and allowed me to come with her to offer my sword to King Robb." 

"Your mother is Lady Maege Mormont, one of His Grace's advisors?" Brienne had heard of Lady Maege and she had always been referred to with fear and reverence.  Even Lady Catelyn had slipped into a tone of admiration when she had spoken of her, though it was blanketed in distaste for the training of her daughters in acts of war.  It seemed that Lady Catelyn had momentarily forgotten whom she had been speaking to, as Brienne had been in her full armor, listening to her charge ramble off the king's bannermen. 

"Aye, that is her," Lady Dacey nodded. She swept her hand to indicate doors that were across the keep from the Great Hall. “And it’s partly thanks to her that the armory is so well stocked.” 

When they entered the vast chamber, Brienne was distracted by the neat rows of weaponry and armor that were hung along the walls. They gleamed in the afternoon light pouring from slats in the roof and flickered in the torches that remained tended as squires and young boys worked to shine metal and sharpen steel. 

While she was already drawn to some of the leather jerkins off in the corner, Lady Dacey was tensed in her spot, scowling at a haggard looking lord that was rifling through a barrel of worn swords. He was thin, bordering on being frail, though Brienne noticed the ghosts of muscles still stitched to his arms and the surety of his fingers as he sifted through the hilts.  She could not see much of his face or body, his chin and chest being covered in a thick, silver beard.  But, when the man felt their gazes set on him, he quickly looked up and Brienne caught the glint of wild rage behind his wrinkled features, like an animal that was hungry for meat and thirsty for blood.  There was a cunning present as well, churning with the boiling fury that was spilling from his eyes. 

Just as Lady Dacey tried to address him with a halting “Lord Karstark”, the man snatched one of the swords, cutting through her words with the clean slick of steel against steel.  He hefted the hilt confidently and made towards Brienne, teeth gnashing and beard quivering. 

“What is the Young Wolf thinking, bringing _traitors_ into our pack,” the man snarled with a weak rumble, his voice echoing the years of toil that his body spoke of.  “A Baratheon loyalist, and I hear a dear friend of the Kingslayer!” 

Torn between giving in to the instinct of reaching for her sword and aware that a dozen northern eyes were rooted on her, Brienne remained motionless, watching as Lord Karstark inched into striking distance. 

But Lady Dacey moved as well, taking a step in front of Brienne’s left side, staying clear of her right so that Brienne had access to draw her blade, should she need to.  “Lord Karstark,” she tried again in a firmer tone. “The Lady Brienne is the sworn shield of Lady Catelyn-“ 

“Who should be in shackles, not _protected_ ,” he hollered, waving his sword. “We lost five valuable Lannister hostages so that she could beg for the Kingslayer to be released!” 

Lady Dacey let out a rude laugh through her nose. “And who made you king so that you could go around judging her?” 

Lord Kastark took a jolted step forward, appearing drunk from his anger.  “You insolent woman-“ 

“Lord Karstark!” boomed the familiar voice of the Blackfish.  Lady Dacey and Brienne turned to find him striding across the courtyard, being trailed by one of the boys from the armory practically running in his haste to match the long, unhurried strides of Ser Brynden.  “King Robb will be calling another council meeting soon.  There’s been a raven.” He spoke softly, confidently, and his authority dowsed the burning tension, leaving only the smoldering ruins of what could have imploded violently. 

With much grumbling, Lord Karstark reluctantly relinquished his sword to the boy and moved to follow the Blackfish. Grabbing Brienne’s armor, Lady Dacey scooted them around the doorway, giving the aged man a wide berth as his simmering rage rolled in the waves of his wake. 

When they had disappeared and the sounds of polishing and clashing washed into the tense silence, drowning out the vestiges of pain and fury, Lady Dacey loosened her grip and strode towards the wall of padding. Not knowing what else to do, Brienne followed, shocked that her feet still moved at her command. 

“Excuse Lord Karstark, Brienne,” Lady Dacey sighed as she yanked down a doublet from a rack.  “He hasn’t been the same since word reached him the Kingslayer killed his son.” She handed the jacket to her and Brienne noticed how she blinked a few times, reading something of Brienne’s expression that confused her. “Not in defense of the Kingslayer, but the boy _was_ in the Whispering Woods, for Seven’s sake.  It was an honorable way to die…though many didn’t.  He should have been more careful-“ 

Though Lady Dacey continued talking, Brienne could no longer absorb her words.  She let out a breath she did not know she had been holding, feeling lightheaded from the sudden release.  For a moment, she had been clouded with the fear that Jaime Lannister had hurt another child. But he had been cut down in battle. Brienne could not even trust herself not to have done the same, had she come across an armored and armed enemy in front of her amidst a sea of foes.  It calmed her to be able to wrap her mind around it, to fall back into something about Jaime that she could try to understand.  But still, there were parts of him she feared to look at, though there was also a dull throb in her belly pulling her to search anyway. 

She could only sift through memories now, though, as she was far away from Jaime and immersed in enough mayhem that she could hardly pick out her own thoughts amidst the fog of voices and tension. So, she pushed aside the musings in time to take the mail that Lady Dacey tossed to her and prepared for a long bout of guarding.  

It was only a few days later that Brienne was already getting tired of waiting outside of doors and standing. She had stood through Lord Hoster’s funeral and had stood before his chambers while Lady Catelyn grieved alone. After all this time, she could feel her joints twitch and unlock and hear them as the snap reverberated in her armor.  When she shifted even slightly, the metal would rub and the plates groaned together, eliciting a wince from her, for fear of disturbing those behind the door she was guarding. Always guarding. 

When Lady Catelyn met with her family, Brienne was allowed on the other side of the doors, which made matters less dull as she could listen in and sometimes her lady would defer to her judgment. But when bannermen or guests were invited, Brienne was tucked into an alcove outside, left staring down the knights that had been placed with her to watch over the king. And her.  

She had been cast out by the arrival of the Freys this time, a limping, hulking man with wild curls and a tall, aged wisp beside him, who had strolled into the great hall as if they were kings themselves, though Brienne had heard they were only a couple of the dozens of heirs vying for the seat of the Twins.  It seemed to her to be sign of disdain, sending these unknown men to entreat with the King of the North. Brienne could hardly blame the Freys for acting slighted, since they had been. But, still, the message was worrisome and a part of Brienne hoped that a truce would not be reached. Her father had always said an alliance held by strife was one that would end with a knife. 

But it was only a short, and uneventful, time later that the Freys exited the hall, still appearing smug.  The king's guards immediately swept inside, capes billowing in the settling wake of the departing men.  Brienne stayed in the shadows, unsure of her place, waiting should her lady would call her in.  And from her partially hidden spot, she caught the floating traces of the Frey's conversation, drifting amongst the crisp air and curling smoke from the guttering torches. 

"...the point of it all." 

"That's not for us to decide. Besides, it'll happen soon enough..." 

"...rumors that she's not even in King's Landing..." 

"...don't need to know that-" 

"Brienne." Lady Catelyn's sharp summons sliced through the swirling quiet, littered only by the fading murmurs of the Freys. 

With a frown at the retreating allies, Brienne quickly ducked into the hall, making sure to try to softly close the heavy doors, sighing when they still clanged shut from her force. It drew too many eyes to her, which elicited a blush, heating her in her armor.  The glances were quick and heavy, immediately blanketing her in the somberness that enveloped the Stark family and their bannermen. 

“I will not be sent off like cattle,” Ser Edmure finally snapped, puffing his chest and wrapping his arms around it threateningly. 

“I want even less to do with the Freys than you, uncle,” King Robb sighed.  He had sunk himself into a chair so that his bulky dark furs pushed up to his auburn curls, making him appear young and overwhelmed.  “I don’t like this.” 

A graying man in scarlet and silver snorted dismissively.  “Our numbers are limited, Your Grace.  We would benefit from not only holding the Twins but strengthening our army with Freys.” 

“Is it fortification to build a gap in our walls?” The Young Wolf mused to himself. 

“There are already weaknesses,” Ser Brynden replied. “The Karstarks-“ 

With a heavy fist on the arm of his chair, the king rose, snarling.  “I know all of this.” He turned now to his mother, who was staring off at nothing, rigid and poised with her hands collapsed amongst her thick skirts.  “We will go to the Twins with our tails between our legs. And then we will use the Freys to take back the North.” 

A murmur arose amongst the small gathering of bannermen.  Brienne caught Lady Dacey grinning wildly behind her mother, who was dressed in mail and stroking a mace like she would the tender cheek of a babe. Some of the others, Ser Brynden included, were frowning in displeasure.  Lady Catelyn was the only one who remained impassive, letting it all wash over her like a weak breeze. 

“My King, we are so close to the throne,” a heavily bearded, younger man boomed. 

“And is that where all of our men must make their new home?” King Robb retorted.  “Winterfell is destroyed.  The Ironborn have attacked our home! And the Lannisters, drawn to the festering corpse that was the North, will soon be flocking to feast.  With my brothers gone, Sansa is in line for the seat, should I die. And she’s to be wed to the Imp, now…” 

He continued, speaking of the need to revive the North, to fill its belly with its men again before they could stretch out to snatch up pieces of the south.  But Brienne could only hear the high whine of thrumming steel as the news vibrated down her bones and burst out through her fingers and toes.  Now she knew why Lady Catelyn sat like stone. Out of the corner of her eye, as she grew too cowardly to look properly, she felt her lady sweep her stare at her again. 

 _How could Jaime let this happen?_ The piercing glare of Lady Catelyn sent Brienne into a panic.  As the hall blurred, green eyes and golden skin tinted the edges of her gaze, hazing over into memories of firesides and heated promises.  He had crippled Lady Catelyn's son, confirmed it with a grimace and a snarl, laced with anger.  And he had promised to try to save the girls.  But was that the same man that was now in King's Landing? Who was the Jaime Lannister that bore the white cloak again? 

Suddenly, thoughts of Arya, the yet unmentioned sister, and the traces of stolen conversations gripped Brienne, lifting her from the fog of before.  Perhaps Jaime had found a means of escape for her.  It still left Sansa in danger but at least one of them may be kept safe from the jaws of the lion. The thought, stirring revival deep in her belly, lifted her hand of its own accord and Brienne found herself gripping the shoulder of Lady Catelyn, pouring into her what spilled so readily from Brienne's own heart.  Hope.  This could not be the end.  If she must, she would go to King's Landing herself and extricate the girls.  And, once there, she would avoid facing Jaime Lannister, the man who was slipping into her thoughts too regularly for comfort, for fear that she would not recognize him anyway. 

As the tense muscles underneath her fingers relaxed slightly, Brienne released her hold but kept the weight of her hand anchoring them both to the present.  King Robb was again discussing how to take back the North and exact revenge against the Ironborn.  Brienne was loathe to leave her lady but she had no desire to go trekking through the north, so far from where she knew, and for a cause that was not her own. 

“We’ll have to go right through the Neck and past Moat Cailin if we want to head home,” Lord Umber barked in his deep voice. His grin split in a wide, mischievous grin as he added, “Right into the hands of the Ironborn.” 

King Robb, for the first time, genuinely smiled back, eagerly and confidently settling in his role as commander. “And we will be ready. After Edmure’s wedding, we will take the Freys and split into three forces, washing over Moat Cailin, taking the Greyjoys down and continuing to ride onward.” 

“We would be passing Greywater Watch,” Lady Catelyn innocently pointed out, raising a demure eyebrow at her son. 

“And they will know to look for our coming,” King Robb agreed.  He turned to the man, who had spoken earlier, and Lady Dacey’s mother.  “Lord Glover, Lady Mormont, you will be sent on separate ships to reach Howland Reed at Greywater Watch to beg him to join our cause.” The pair of bannermen exchanged curious glances, but they bowed all the same. “And,” he murmured. “You will also be carrying letters announcing my heir, should I fall.” 

“Your Grace-“ Lady Catelyn started, finally rising from her chair. 

He held up a hand, the Young Wolf demanding her silence, though he looked upon her as a beseeching boy asking for approval. “It must be done, mother. I will not let the Lannisters take our home because I have failed.  There will be another Stark to protect you.” 

“And who is there left of our family?” Lady Catelyn begged, the pain of having to echo her losses so great that the others in the room hunched their shoulders and lowered their heads from the burden. Lady Mormont reached out to pull her arm through Lady Catelyn’s.  A mother holding another. 

The king sighed dejectedly.  “Jon.” 

“Jon _Snow_?” Lord Umber boomed. 

“Yes,” King Robb hurriedly replied as he watched his mother pale and open her trembling mouth to protest.  “My father, your husband, your liege lord accepted him as his own. Half of his blood is Stark and that’s worth more to me than any full blooded Lannister.  He will be my heir.” 

“He has taken the black, Your Grace,” Lady Mormont pointed out. 

“And he will take the grey again, if called upon,” King Robb replied.  He looked at Lady Catelyn, still grasping Lady Mormont and staring at him agape. “I know he will do this. And Lord Howland will convince him.”

  

Brienne's father had never warned her about the complications of war.  Perhaps he had not known how they were fought off the battlefield, taking lives and destroying families just as easily as those the Stranger took while they held a sword.  There were no elegant pictures or beautiful words in her childhood stories about the secrets and subterfuge that tilted the scales of conflict just as heavily as mail and manpower could. If anything, this battle raged ever more fiercely than the one she had trained herself for. Her skills with sword and horse were paltry and inadequate to protect against the politics. 

Since vowing to defend Lady Catelyn, Brienne had not needed to unsheathe her blade, but she was coming to realize the Starks needed aid in ways she could not offer.  On the board of battle, they had men and organization and power to defeat their numerous enemies.  But they were no match for the likes of Tywin Lannister and Stannis Baratheon when it came to the game that tied the pieces off the map.  

Renly had been just as blind and incapable of the plotting that was needed for a true victory and he had slipped into his demise easily enough, despite being surrounded by scores of men and houses continuing to rally to his cause.  Brienne feared that the Starks would find their own downfall away from the battlefield as well.  King Robb was rigid in his sense of duty and honor but he broke when it came to his young heart. Though he may have been an excellent commander, he was inept at grasping the ranging desires of his bannermen and the means with which the enemy could rip apart their loyalty with fear and gold.  There were some houses that would remain true to the north until their deaths, but Lady Catelyn seemed suspicious of others, especially the most recent additions of the Boltons and the Freys.  Her son would not hear of any advice against dissent, brushing it away as an impossibility, though it was all too real, as Brienne was reminded of the men that had rallied to the Lannisters and Stannis, even before King Renly's body had cooled. The problem with the young King of the North was that he had not tasted defeat, not truly, hardly accepting that the crumbling ash that was once Winterfell marked the turning of his campaign. Lady Catelyn had eaten from that plate too much, as a mother _and_ a highborn woman.  She and Brienne knew it was only a matter of time before such a meal would be forced down the wolf's maw. 

There would be little good in warning King Robb, since he did not even heed his mother when she tried.  And with all the turmoil churning through Brienne's mind, she realized that Jaime had recognized this all along.  He had cautioned her of Renly's folly and tried to teach her about the Starks as well.  But all she had seen was a bitter, cruel Kingslayer who reveled in mocking those that still fought to remain in the world while he viewed himself above it. _He showed me how wrong I was about so many things_. If he knew of what she was observing and read her thoughts as easily as he had on those mornings sharing a meal before her tent, he would have laughed and provoked a confession from her about his superior knowledge of the world away from her island. 

But Jaime was not with her.  He was tucked inside King’s Landing, most likely warming the bed of his sister, with any lingering vestiges of his time as a hostage burning up in the heat of his desire.  Though he may be called back to battle soon enough, Brienne could only take comfort that his fight would not be one that she would be commanded to partake in. He had asked her once what would she do when next they met and she still had no idea, dreading finding his eyes, seas of green crashing against a field of blood, on the other side of the end of things. 

But that was a future that was too far off to dwell on. For now, Brienne had only to look towards a long and arduous journey to the Twins, the way weighed down by the massive force that was to trudge through the Riverlands, which had become a trail of sucking mud and treacherous flooding that would drag their steps and slow their progress.  The rain had let up substantially, but the constant fine mist was enough to keep the lands bloated and heavy. 

As Brienne yanked at the straps of her saddle once again, nervously checking pulls that she knew were already secure, she glanced around at the party that was huddling too close for her and her mare’s comfort, pressed together in the small courtyards inside Riverrun’s gates and drawn nearer in search of warmth while men and beasts shivered in the wet and chilled air.  The group blew out brilliant white plumes of breath that rose over the heads of even the mounted knights and dispersed slowly, casting the scene in a murky haze, an ominous fog that Brienne could not keep herself from following as it escaped over the tops of the walls. 

Turning to her left, she watched Lady Dacey standing rigidly by her own horse, her dark eyes set on her king, already mounted and waiting in front of them.  She had easily chosen to stay with the company rather than travel with her mother, though since she had returned from seeing off Lady Mormont on her ship, she had been even more silent and stoic, the smooth planes of her soft cheeks pulled taut by her clenching jaw.  Brienne knew how torn she must have felt, leaving her family in order to follow her duty. 

The tension that hummed through Lady Dacey was only a pebble amongst the mountain of strain that coiled around the rest of the group. It felt less like a merry wedding party and more like an army preparing for battle.  The dread worried Brienne.  They may be traveling to restore an alliance, but it was clear that few amongst them trusted the Freys and there was a good chance that this attempt would end unfavorably.  But Brienne’s only concern was for the Lady Catelyn, who was also already on her horse, the reins dangling loosely in the soft leather gloves she wore, yet the mare was tossing its head and flicking its tail in annoyance.  Brienne imagined that under the thick winter skirts of her lady, her thighs were gripping the flanks of her mount, unintentionally transferring her own apprehensions to the beast. 

The call was raised for the knights to mount or to take their places.  Brienne easily climbed into her saddle, taking a moment to control her mare, which stubbornly tossed her about in her excitement to get moving.  She patted her neck soothingly, feeling guilt about not exercising her more.  Jaime would have been angry at her mistreatment of his present, after all. 

When the gates began to rise, Brienne looked back behind her, her height allowing her to see over the other knights and spot the Blackfish standing on the steps before the keep. His arms were crossed and while the stewards and commoners scurried around him, he remained still and calm, though his eyes were constantly roving over the front of the column, flitting between his niece and his great-nephew.  He would stay behind to protect Riverrrun from any threats that would undoubtedly take advantage of the Tully and Stark weakness.  With Lord Hoster’s death, Ser Edmure was now its holder and he was leaving to marry a Frey.  The shift in power left the house vulnerable, especially with the new lord having a reputation for ineptitude.  Ser Brynden and Lady Catelyn were the last of the older generation ~~s~~ and their powers over the shifting world was beginning to wan. 

Brienne turned away from the Blackfish to look at the Young Wolf, at ease and talking amiably with the Greatjon, not displaying any signs of the restlessness that was gripping his men.  It was an advantage of youth that Brienne hoped would carry the rest through such a tumultuous journey that would determine the continual success of King Robb, one that the north was depending upon. It was also an outcome that would determine Brienne’s own future, should she have to act quickly to protect Lady Catelyn. 

As the column finally began to move forward, Brienne shifted the horse that Jaime had stolen for her closer to her lady, riding in the wake.  They squeezed together through the gates and over the bridge and then burst forth, spreading silently across the fields of the Riverlands, charging forth like the dark mass of a shadow.


	15. The Red Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has stuck with me through Jaime and Brienne's separate journeys! This is the beginning of another section of this story in which I move away from canon again and we can focus on our favorite pair! But not without some surprises first! Please read the notes at the end of the chapter!
> 
> Thank you to Coraleeveritas. She has been so supportive with my ideas and she has probably equaled me in the amount of time that she has put into this. Yet even after over a year of working on this together, she is still as enthusiastic and involved as the very first day I proposed this idea. For that, I will forever feel grateful. It's a wonderful gift that I have never felt alone or floundering during this process!
> 
> Thank you to Sandwichesyumyum. I may have fallen a bit in love with Addam Marbrand, thanks to her, but I won't touch him, I swear! Sometimes I forgot the enjoyment of writing and story telling and Sandwiches has made sure I never lose the purpose or fun from creating this piece of fiction. I love this story thanks to her!

Jaime had forgotten how easy it was to herd simpering, young maidens. With his exposure to women mostly consisting of his sister, Brienne, and Lady Catelyn, as well as his Aunt Genna in his youth, he had expected some sort of protest from Sansa Stark about being forced to partake in an afternoon ride with the Kingslayer and an unnecessary force of eight other guards.  But while her blue eyes widened and her pert little mouth parted to form instinctive plaintiffs, she merely nodded and allowed Lord Varys to usher her through the Red Keep. 

She exuded fear when she entered the stables, though.  Jaime noticed how she eyed the men suspiciously, perceiving none were garbed in bright Lannister colors.  Jaime had donned tunic and breeches of browns, covered by a gray cloak, and his mail and armor was old, dented, and unobtrusive.  He refused to switch out his sword, though he hid it in a rusty scabbard and belt borrowed from the armory for training.  And he knew the importance of his steed, a dun warhorse that tended to whicker and dance along the cobblestones, boasting too pridefully for stealth.  Jaime planned to ride out after the others had left with the girl, hoping not to draw any attention, but at least any that came would be on himself, rather than the party escorting Sansa Stark. 

There was only a momentary pause in the lady’s graceful steps to indicate that she had sensed something was amiss.  After she had smartly assessed the men readying their horses, she was bathed once again in the scent of terror, trembling slightly when Addam handed her the reins of her palfrey.  She calmed slightly when he gave her a charming smile, as most ladies did when Addam set his consideration on them, and allowed him to take her foot and hoist her into the saddle. 

When he had secured Sansa, he came over to join Jaime and Varys, hovering on the outskirts of the party.  Jaime nodded towards the men that he had gathered.  He recognized all, save two, and he was surprised and dismayed by the motley group Addam had assembled.  The unknown faces were young men from the city guard, only familiar from his times in Lannisport as a boy.  He thought perhaps that Addam had known them since childhood.  He was, however, pleased to see Ser Lyle Crakehall, or the Strongboar, as he was often called.  He was a towering brute of a man and Jaime knew he would have need for his strength in his quest. The only other knights in the group were Ser Humfrey Swyft and Ser Jon Bettley, men that Jaime had only noticed in passing, as well as Ser Bonifer Hasty, aged, but honorable and pious. The last members were the youngest. He had heard Addam address the unknown lad as Peck, a lanky, dull looking boy who appeared to be attempting to grow a beard, though the hair only sprouted in brown tufts along his smooth cheeks. The other boy Jaime recognized as a distant relative, Tyrek Lannister, appearing much like Jaime had at his age.            

Though Jaime wanted to question Addam about his men, his friend was pointedly ignoring him, glaring at the Spider as the bald eunuch picked at a thread on the silks of his sleeve.  “I searched the _entire city_ for that bloody boy,” he seethed, jabbing a finger in the direction of Tyrek. “And _you_ watched me.  And all the while, he was hidden?!”

“He has information which could be dangerous, in the wrong hands,” Varys replied simply and calmly.

“And what would that be?” Jaime demanded.

Varys chuckled at him, acting to all like a king looking down upon his subjects from his throne. “What would be the point of keeping him alive and hidden if I were to divulge what he knew so easily?”  

Addam opened his mouth, emitting a snarl as he was about to further the argument, but Jaime shoved his palm into his chest, halting him. “We’ve no time for this now, Addam. We’ll take the boy. He’ll fit in just nicely with this party you have gathered for me.” 

With much resistance, Addam tore his gaze away from staring down the Spider, who appeared to enjoy his looks, and glared at Jaime.  “I was left with little time and there are few in this city that I would trust with _treason_. That’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it, Jaime? We are heading towards the Twins, about to foil your father’s plans.  There are few that would be so willing to give his life for that.” 

“We are not _foiling_ anything,” Jaime grumbled, folding his arms across his chest.  He had ensured he had no time to truly dwell on what he planned to do after they left King’s Landing and he begrudged Addam for forcing him to think of it now.  “We are only a small group sneaking in to extract one woman.  I doubt any of us will be harmed in that and I care little for what occurs elsewise.” 

Addam snorted, but the challenging look Jaime cast him silenced any further argument on the matter.  “And what of the Stark girl? Whom was I supposed to trust to keep her whereabouts a secret and whose absence would not also rouse suspicion?” 

He had a point.  Jaime knew he would be questioned by the wench about the Stark girls and he could not say that he left one of them unguarded in King’s Landing.  But, when he returned, there would be a search for her and more inquiries for him as well.  

Was he returning, though? _Don’t think about that.  Get the wench first_. If he lingered too long on what he was doing, and what it meant for his future, he would be lost. All he knew for sure was that he had to get to Brienne.  It mattered little what happened after she was back within his reach. 

“You did well, Addam,” Jaime conceded.  “We will take Tyrek and keep him safe with Sansa.” 

Varys arched a plucked eyebrow at him.  “I hope that will be well away from the Twins, Ser,” he simpered. “She should not witness what is to come.” 

 _What is to come_. Jaime tried not to consider that either. If his father was involved, there would not be a Stark left alive by the time the moon arose on the night of Edmure Tully’s wedding.  While he had no guilt over the demise of the wolves, the means with which their pieces would be plucked from the board did not sit well with a knight like Jaime Lannister. He would have rather taken down the King of the North himself, on horseback and with a known enemy, armed and staring at him from across a field of battle.  But he had little intention of stalling to try to warn or stop the Starks. His sights were set on extracting a young, foolish maiden from what was bound to become a chaotic massacre. He could only pray that he would be too consumed running his horse up into a lather trying to make it to her in time to consider the possibility of failing.  

But the journey proved to be uneventful and quiet.  Though the group of knights and squires appeared amiable, they were not satisfied with the meager answers that Addam and Jaime attempted to provide about their purpose.  Jaime was vague in his responses for the sake of Sansa Stark.  He merely explained that she was no longer safe in King’s Landing and had to be returned to her family.  Though she had perked up at the mention of her brother and mother heading to the Twins, Jaime made sure she knew her final destination would be the North. He had no notion of where to send her, what with rumors swirling of Winterfell being swallowed up in fire and snow, but that was a problem for the wench.  She would continue the journey and would most like take it upon herself to resume the search for the missing Arya Stark.  Still, Jaime would rest easier if she was safe behind fortified walls, guarding a fragile lady, despite the result of her guarding another currently being her imminent death. 

And once his thoughts and nightmares kept him up too many evenings, he forced the horses and his men to ride on through the eve, while his mind strayed to what he had left behind in King’s Landing.  His first concern was for Tyrion, injured and alone as he had left him. _Forgive me and understand, brother_.  But how could he accept Jaime’s choice when he himself had no true idea what had spurred him to run at the first threat to Brienne’s life? Perhaps it had all been an excuse to escape Cersei.  Her betrayal was a barb in his side that forced him to hunch over and gasp in the saddle, the pain and the loss overwhelming, as if she had been ripped from his ribs and hips, tearing his skin and bearing his heart away with her. He doubted the wound would ever close or that he could come to terms with the sight of her in another man’s arms. 

Saving the wench was his awakening, his realization that there was more to the world, that he was something beyond a secret lover and a dejected knight. He would see again the way that she looked at him and all would be right.  He would save her life and, with it, his own.  All he needed was to borrow a bit of her strength, to do what he must, protect his brother and bring back the honor Brienne had bestowed him, to his family name and to the throne. 

So, he found himself hastily dumping Sansa Stark with Ser Bonifer at a small farm sitting alongside the Green Fork.  She had seemed to be drawn to the serene and pleasant nature of the older knight and Jaime had no use for him while trying to slip into the Twins. He left them both safely away from any carnage that could take place.  Despite trusting in her safety, Jaime could not shake the frightened doe look she cast him as she took in her surroundings, a meager hut set along the bank of the river, guarded by only a stand of bushes and housing only an elderly couple and their lame son and his wife.  She had cast uncertain glances at Ser Bonifer as well, who had gladly taken the offered ale from the family, once their lodgings had been exchanged for the gold Addam had so smartly squandered. 

It would have to do, for now.  Soon, Sansa would be in the capable hands of another maiden, who was also a competent soldier. He would see the backs of them both then. While the thought did not settle him, he took his pleasure from at least hoping to see them both alive and headed home. He could say the same for himself, after all. 

They rode hard to the crossing, but no matter how roughly they dug their heels into their mounts, the sun rose and fell too many times.  At least, Jaime thought that it did, somewhere behind the ominous sheets of rain that clung to the horse’s hooves and dragged them down into the treacherous mud.  They only came in sight of the castles the day that Varys had marked as Edmure Tully's wedding, and the moment the Freys would strike.  As much as Jaime wanted to slip into the gates as soon as they arrived, he was wary of the amount of men that were milling about, especially those that could be seen atop both strongholds and swarming the water tower. Small as his party was, they would be soon noticed trying to make their way in the open grasses pouring out from the sole entrance to the nearest fortress. 

Addam found them a nest of trees sprouting from a high hill where they could hide the horses and leave one of the men to keep watch for them. It also gave some cover and a good view of the road leading to the gates, which was still laden with travelers and suppliers, intent upon taking the coin of Starks and Freys alike, unknowingly robbing corpses before they were cold. 

While Peck and Ser Jon kept keen eyes on those that passed, looking out for any disguised arms or knights amongst the throng of commoners and straggling, haggard soldiers, Jaime could not tear himself away from glaring at the keep. Addam had chased off the others when they had tried to engage Jaime.  His friend had only cast him a concerned glance but left him to his silent vigil. The moment Jaime would have to look away from the crossing, squinting as he was through the haze of rain, he knew in his gut that he would miss the chance at spotting straw hair, dull in the grey shadows, bobbing above the crowd, waiting for him to find her, to take back the time apart and set them both on the path they should have chosen when they separated. 

Even when the sun threatened to dip too low for him to see inside the high walls, he still watched, trusting the blue of her armor to catch the light and hail him from within.  _Show yourself, wench.  Give me a sign they haven't already taken your noble, powerful head in the hopes of leaving your wolf vulnerable.  Guide me to you_. 

He was torn from his silent plea by a short, quiet cry from Ser Jon. With a groan, he finally cast his eyes away, feeling the moment of finding her slip and drift off into the rushing current of the Green Fork.  He followed Addam to where the spies had hidden themselves in the brambles. Bettley jutted his chin toward a rickety wagon making its way up the now deserted road.  It was being guided by a large man, muscles churning beneath a ratty cloak that was meant to hide his frame and his face, only lanky pieces of raven black hair falling out.  But there was no mistaking a soldier and the horse he maneuvered was by far the biggest war stallion Jaime had ever seen.  Even if he did not recognize the form of the Hound hidden behind the cowl, Stranger would have been easy to spot from a distance.  Jaime cursed under his breath at the sight. 

"Saw his scars when he turned to talk to some boy in the back," Ser Jon murmured.  "What in the seven hells is he doing here, dressed like that?"

 _We have no time for this_. The itch to begin creeping down to the castle made Jaime reckless.  He could not have Sandor Clegane loose in the chaos, not knowing if he had been called to take part.  The last he had heard, the man had fled at the sight of the wildfire during the Blackwater, so it was unlikely he had been welcomed back and commanded by Tywin to head to the Twins. Regardless of his purpose though, his presence would still set off suspicion. 

"Let's find out," Jaime sighed.  He shook off Addam's hand when he stood, ignoring the protest, and stepped out confidently into the road, making sure his face was visible and his sword was pulled before his cloak.  "What a wonder to find you here, _Ser_." His voice and his mocking inflection of the title would allow Clegane to recognize him easily enough, though he may be rewarded with a boulder sized fist to the nose, for his boldness. 

From the shadows of the hood, Jaime saw the whites of the man's eyes as he spotted him.  He quickly pulled on the reins, stopping horse and cart well away from where Jaime stood at the edge of the path.  Leaning back into the belly of the cart, Clegane spoke a few rasping words to a small form, raising his hand threateningly when the lad attempted to argue. With the matter settled, the Hound lumbered off the seat and hobbled towards Jaime, strides strong but clearly recovering from injury. 

"What the fuck do you want, Kingslayer?" Clegane barked. "If you're here to take me back, you can try to kill me now.  I ain't going and I’ll take your pretty head off if you think you can make me." He looked even more like a rabid dog than normal, his grey eyes casting in all directions, lingering on where the others were hidden, spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth in his rant, and hands twitching for the sword and dagger Jaime saw strapped to his body.  He was sure there was more weapons hidden somewhere. 

"I've not yet been delegated to running errands like chasing after dogs, Clegane," Jaime replied.  "I have business in the Twins and had no idea I'd be running into you." 

"Aye? And what do you have to do with the Freys and Starks, huh? Come to surrender again?" 

Jaime sighed, having forgotten how difficult it was to speak to the man when he was in one of his foul moods, which was always, if he was not passed out drunk.  He was a good fighter, though, and Jaime may need that.  "I could ask what you’re doing with a boy, you dressed up like a merchant, heading to the Twins.  But I imagine you would tell me it was none of my concern." 

"I would tell you to fuck off." Clegane spat into the path at their feet.  "I've got honest trade to do with the Starks, so get going." 

Jaime cast a quick glance at the cart, noticing the boy slip from the back and try to dart into the woods.  He took a guess of what the Hound would be doing with a child.  "Your trade is getting away." Clegane frowned a moment before he followed Jaime's gaze, cursing soundly as he made to chase after the boy.  "Ser Jon", Jaime called, hearing the rustling of branches as Bettley tracked the lad. 

There was a flurry of ruffling and grunts, like the sound of a boar being roosted from his spot.  Just as Clegane was about to barrel through the thick underbrush, a cry and obscenity burst from the hedges.  The sounds halted him in the same moment that Ser Jon came dashing onto the path, arms wrapped around the struggling boy and favoring his right foot as he ran full force into the heavy chest of Clegane.  The lithe guard bounced once off the man's solid body, but he was quick about twisting away as two muscled arms made to snatch up his prize. 

As Ser Jon shuffled towards Jaime, who was too annoyed and anxious to step another foot away from the crossing, the boy spouted out a litany of taunts and threats.  "Let go of me you Lannister scum! I'll bite your fingers off and you’ll die of rot, just like you are on the inside!  I'll kill myself before you take me back!"

Clegane was quick to try to follow the pair but he was not fast enough to yank the child from Ser Jon's arms before Jaime finally understood what was going on.  "Where in the Seven hells did you find Arya Stark?" he demanded, as the Hound hauled her towards him, knowing it came out a humorless laugh and a defeated moan.  _The wench will have my hide if I allow the other Stark girl slip through my fingers.  She'll let no sweet words from that plump, innocent mouth about my saving her and Sansa if she finds out I missed one. She won't, if she's still alive, that is._  

"What the fuck do you care, Lannister?" The Hound snarled, keeping a paw wrapped around the thin wrist of Arya Stark as he shielded her behind his back. 

She was dirty, haggard, and with her short hair, looked every bit of a common boy. But her gray eyes were shining feral. They darted about wildly as she licked her lips and sought out an escape route.  She had certainly been shoved down a much darker path than her sister and there was nothing left of a highborn maiden lingering inside the wolf pup. 

"She ain't going back to the King and the fuck if I am either," Clegane was saying. 

"Like I told you, I'm not on any duty to find you or the Stark girl," Jaime drawled easily, hoping to ease the raised hackles of the two. "In fact, her sister is waiting at a farm not far from here, on her way to Riverrun." 

Clegane threw back his head, lank black hair tumbling from his shoulders and scars twisting his features into a rictus as he boomed out a laugh. "You expect me to believe that shit? Why take her there when her family is down where you’re headed?" 

Jaime shrugged.  "I wouldn't trust the Freys with a pretty young thing like Sansa Stark, now, would you?" He saw the way Clegane's expression darkened and Arya squirmed in his tightened grip.  "I'll be sure to tell her family where she'll be but I have other matters to attend to down at the Twins. Let Tyrek bring Arya to her sister and they can both go to Riverrun.  I swear that you can take the reward for both Starks." 

"Why should I trust your word, Kingslayer?" 

Jaime huffed in impatience.  "You're so predictable, Hound.  It's disappointing." He reached back on his belt and pulled out a leather pouch filled with coin.  Addam and Varys had provisioned a bit of wealth in case they had to flee with Sansa, perhaps to Essos, and the portion of it that Jaime carried could be spared. Both Stark girls and an extra man would be worth the loss.  "How about you trust money, then.  This is enough to cover what the Starks would have paid you for Arya. And there's more to help me with my business at the Twins." 

Clegane eyed the bag, ignoring how the wolf girl was now frantically trying to escape, no doubt expecting this to lead her back to the capitol. "And what do I have to do?" 

"Simple." _Impossible_. "Help me extract another young maiden, alive, from the Stark party, without being seen." 

The Hound snorted.  "Got tired of your buggering sister then?" 

For a heartbeat, Jaime's mind stuttered back to the sight of Cersei slithering her body along the plates of Kettleblack's armor, ruby mouth opened to let out her breathy sighs and lashes, like grains of wheat, fluttering in her lust. It vanished as quickly as it had come to seize his heart. 

"The woman I seek is a warrior and a friend, Clegane. It is a personal mission to see her away from the Twins and escorting the Stark girls back home." 

“Doesn’t sound like something your daddy would approve of,” the Hound shot back, though he was simply growling now for the fun of it, eyes following the swing of the purse in Jaime’s hand. 

“You’re right.  It doesn’t. Now, do I have a deal?” 

“You wretched bastard!” Arya Stark shrieked even before Clegane could agree. 

She whipped her head down, small teeth burying into the thin flesh around the man’s wrist.  When he howled in pain and anger, Jaime saw her jaw tighten, blood blooming upon her lips and dribbling down her chin, mixing with the raindrops that plastered her face. She was so intent on escaping his one hand that she had forgotten about the other and Clegane reared it back, pulling a fist, and crashing it down to her temple. 

In an instant, she went limp, crumpling to the muddy path like nothing more than a pair of trousers falling off the leg.  Her hold on Clegane released, leaving him spouting out more curses than Jaime knew existed and pacing around, like his heavy steps could chase away the pain.  Though he had clamped his hand around the torn flesh of the bite, Jaime saw more of his blood worming up between his thick fingers. 

“Well, that actually makes things easier,” Jaime shrugged.  “Tyrek!”

The rest of his men emerged from the bush, wary and wet.  Addam commanded a snarling Clegane to lead the cart and Stranger to the side of the path, while Ser Humfrey offered to examine his wound. Jaime was left staring down at the unconscious form of Arya Stark as his young relative cautiously made his way over.  “Have Ser Lyle bind her up and gag that mouth.  Throw her over your horse and make for the farm.  Don’t stop for anything.  _Do not_ free her until we return.  And don’t even think of making eyes at her sister. Do you understand?” 

Tyrek nodded enthusiastically enough.  Jaime figured he had no desire to be anywhere near the Twins and would rather wait out this portion of the journey, warm and snug, with a featherbed and a lovely maiden to watch over.  It mattered little to Jaime since that removed another matter from his hands. Tyrek would go with the girls and Ser Bonifer would keep an eye on them all.  Hopefully the old man did not give pity to the youngest sister. He would likely lose some fingers for his concern. 

Jaime left Addam to organize everyone.  They had not wasted much time, thankfully.  As he took up his spot again, eyes trying to bore through stone and water to seek out his target, he found that the fires were just starting to be lit, igniting even in the light smattering of rain that continued, and food was just beginning to stream out from the kitchens.  The damp dusk air was floating to him subtle smells of meat and horse and he could make out traces of laughter.  With the Starks lulled by wine and revelry and the Freys and Boltons salivating at their own morsels, maws closing treacherously, a lone cart with piles of goods in the back would not raise suspicion. 

“It’s time,” Jaime sighed.  _I’m coming, Brienne._  

After they had all been reminded of the appearance of the wench, tall, easily mistaken for a knight, ugly face for a man or maiden, but with blue tinted armor and hovering close to Catelyn Stark, Addam and one of his city guardsmen took the bench at the front of the cart.  Clegane had tried to calm Stranger enough to let them near and even with Addam's skill with beasts, he had narrowly missed being bitten. But once the monster of a horse was settled, the rest of the men clambered into the back, throwing tarpaulins and a scattering of goods across themselves so they would appear to be a pile of wares and dried meat to be taken to the feast. 

Jaime dared not lift the flap to spy on their progress, though he could have used a waft of cold night air to push back the stench of bodies around him, having been unfavorably shoved between Ser Lyle and Peck. He tracked their route by the sound of what ran beneath hoof and wheel, knowing when they had made their way over the planks that led to the outer gate.  They were stopped, but Addam easily convinced the guards that they were delivering the last of the provisions and they continued on. Jaime knew to expect to be detained once more before they would be in the heart of the keep. 

When the cart finally stopped and Jaime heard Addam and the other man slip off the bench, jogging footsteps disappearing amongst the throng of celebration, he snuck out of the back, feeling the others jostle quickly away as well. The cart had been halted along a wall close to the main hall.  Catelyn Stark would be amongst the highborn guests offered a place to eat with the lord of the Twins and that meant Brienne would be nearby as well. 

Without waiting, quick to lose any suspicion of so many men hidden in the darkness, the Strongboar, Peck, and the other city guardsmen slinked along the wall, making for the opposite entrance to the hall.  Jaime and Ser Humfrey waited for Clegane to loosen the binds that tied Stranger to the cart.  The warhorse was strong and angry, the perfect mount to carry two across the moat and through the mayhem that was soon to erupt.  Jaime did not care for the thought of the Hound escaping with Brienne but it ensured her safety better than what they had planned for the rest of them. Under the cover of darkness, Ser Jon would guide their horses to a small bank that nestled against the outer wall of the crossing.  It was the only safe place to hide their mounts, but it meant that the men would have to somehow completely escape the castle before they could ride on.  Hopefully Peck would be able to make his way back to the portcullis and keep an eye out for when the Freys tried to lower it, blocking off any chance of escape for the Starks.  If he could, he would stop the guards and drop the drawbridge, which would at least afford them a chance of breaking out.  

Each time the men had looked at Jaime as they tried to figure a plan that would allow all of them to leave the massacre alive, he had cursed Brienne for getting into such a mess and then he promptly cursed himself for not being able to live without trying to save her. 

The three men stepped out of the shadows and into the open courtyard before the hall.  There were tents and tables strewn across stone and grass, brimming with drink and men, turning the night air into a cacophony of laughter and shouting and the clinking of plates and mugs. Jaime quickly glanced about, noticing how eagerly the servers and Freys refilled the cups of every man wearing a wolf on his chest.  No one seemed to notice how their hosts refrained, the nervous twitches of fingers and darting eyes, nor how heavily their allies were armed.

 _The Young Wolf truly is foolish to think he could ever be safe enough around friends not to watch his own back_.  Perhaps Walder Frey would not have made such a bold move as to murder the entire Stark army within his walls if he had not received the backing and blessing of King's Landing. But Jaime had learned long ago that forgiveness was not something that was freely given. Robb Stark should have been suspicious that the Freys would readily ignore his slight to them. The marriage of an uncle was hardly an equal price, after all.

 _I should have known.  I should have never let the wench follow the wolves.  I knew they would be hunted by the lion and she would fall with the pack. But all I could think about was keeping her away from myself and my dear sister._  

Just as they neared the steps to get into the hall, the music weaving through the crowds, into the courtyard from inside, stopped and twisted, lone minstrels striking up a familiar and haunting tune that seeped into the stone and dripped down the steps towards the revelry out in the open air. 

"Fuck," Jaime hissed, making quickly for the keep. 

"What in the buggering hells is that, Lannister?" Clegane demanded from beneath his hood.  He pushed aside drunken fools as he made to follow him inside. 

Ser Humfry laughed.  "My, they are subtle, aren't they? I can see why Lord Tywin finds these Freys amusing." 

The first scream from the hall signaled the others to draw swords, daggers, bows, whatever they had chosen at hand to sink into the flesh of their nearest brother.  It only took Jaime a moment to consider the best weapon to easily and safely dispatch a group of men and he shoved Clegane and Ser Humfrey against the side of the steps just as the arrows began to rain down, pelting the cobbles like the sound of a gentle hail storm, more cries and yells booming like thunder and cracking like lightning. 

"What the fuck, Kingslayer?" the Hound roared.  His eyes were narrowed, hardly a shiver of fear running through him, though he looked like he would gut Jaime in an instant. 

"It doesn't matter," Jaime replied.  He looked up to the steps just in time to see an escaping man, dressed in the grays and whites of House Stark, felled to the ground by bolts blossoming in his neck and knees.  _Not Brienne_.  "Find the wench and bring her out alive and there's another purse for you. Kill anyone who stands in your way." 

"I should just kill you now and make for the bloody gate," he barked back. 

"Now, Hound," Jaime grinned, crouching back far enough to remain hidden and unsheathe his sword.  "Where's the fun in that?" 

It only took a quick scan of the curtain walls to find the hidden nooks in which the Frey’s archers could deftly choose their targets. There were more along the inner wall, visible in the guttering and flaring light from torches and fire pits in the courtyard, their forms bathed in the depths of the seven hells, casting their shadows into giants against the stone behind them.  Jaime thought of Renly's death and vowed that no darkness would take him so easily. 

He slipped along the low wall leading to the steps, using the sheltered corner where the stairs grew out from the entrance to the hall to hide and protect himself from the slaughter.  He jumped up to catch the edge, hauling himself over it, and taking off to duck inside the castle before the bolts that he could still hear plinking off the cobbles could find him and sink into his yielding flesh. 

There was panic everywhere.  He could taste it in his mouth just as he could feel the blood lust simmering below his skin. The Freys and Boltons were running down all the Stark and every one of their bannerman, using the confusion and fear to spear through man after screaming man.  The air was thick with smoke from the fires, the arrows piercing through the haze to meet muscle more times than they danced harmlessly against the stone.  The cries, some ending in a sickening gurgle or a defeated, terrified moan, could not mask the laughter, the triumphant hollering that only turned Jaime's stomach more. 

He would not look behind him, surrounded enough by the sounds and smells of the massacre.  The death of wolves mattered little when _she_ was somewhere in the chaos.  There was a wide room before the sealed doors of the great hall, though it was littered with bodies and fighting men that it felt cramped and suffocating.  His search forced him to focus on the death before him, glancing at every face and praying he did not see cold, beautiful dead blue eyes and yet hoping she was where he could get to her and not inside, behind the fortress of Freys and heavy wood. 

As he entered the room, he slid his back against the walls, slipping on blood and stepping over forms that he only had moments to glance at before moving on.  Even in the muted colors he was wearing and without a sigil on his chest, he drew the attention of the Freys.  One large, grizzly man bored down on him with a mace.  Jaime ducked just as its teeth chipped the stone behind him, running his sword into the stomach that had come to be in his line of sight.  Without even ensuring a final killing blow, he slid his blade out and shoved the dying man to the side. 

This was the easy part, what he was made for.  But the song of steel, whose tune would rise so easily to his heart, was struggling to chime in the cacophony of death.  Instead it was a mournful ballad, a wail of tragedy, but still Jaime clung to the melody, using it to help him reach Brienne. 

He continued on, not catching a dagger to his leg in time, but severing the attacker's arm at the shoulder.  He had to wrench the entire limb away to remove the blade, though he felt no pain. The chaos would end soon. The Freys and Boltons were trapping their prey and devouring them too fast. 

Jaime had to get to her.  Alive or dead, he would find her.  But he needed the cover of the massacre to steal her away and keep her close and safe. 

As he was grappling with a young knight, who was intent upon sinking his bloodied short sword into Jaime's neck, he was knocked to his knees by a sudden weight from behind.  The knight was also thrown off balance and caught sight of whatever danger was to Jaime's back. Not missing an opportunity, Jaime swung his right hand all the way to his other side, bringing his blade back around to slice through ribs and spine and heart, splashing blood and bone against the wall as it ran through his opponent. 

Still crouched, Jaime spun on his toes, sword up and running crimson, to look at what had crashed behind him.  Sandor Clegane was standing, looking down at him, one hand gripping his own broad sword that was dripping and the other holding a head by the hair. The body was in a heap by Jaime's feet and coated his boots with more blood, though there was no discerning what belonged to the man Jaime had cut down and what could be spilling from himself. 

Red.  Red everywhere.  It clung to stone and skin, burning Jaime’s eyes, the smell clawing at the inside of his nostrils.  The room was bathed in Lannister colors. He could have laughed at how pleased his father would be to see it.  _How could no one think this the work of the Hand?_  

"That one almost got you, Kingslayer," the Hound chuckled. He did not seem to mind that he was covered as well, nor that this was less of a battle and more of a mass killing. It mattered little to the dog what kind of murder this was.  It was all the same. 

Yet it was not.  The thought made their hurried meal from earlier rise up to Jaime’s throat, coating his tongue with more metallic tastes to coil his stomach. 

Swallowing it all down, he hissed back to the Hound, "Stay low and find the girl." 

They continued to skirt the room, Jaime now silently saying her name over and over, as if he could call to her, as if she could make her way to him by the need in his prayer.  _Brienne.  Brienne. Brienne._   Gods, he would never let her leave his sight if he could just find her.  He swore it. 

Then, towards the back of the room, pressed next to the doors leading into the hall, he caught a flash of blue, so blinding that it lit his eyes even moments after he lost it again.  Taking off at a run, Jaime launched himself towards the spot.  Thankfully, Clegane cleared a path for him or else he would have been dead before he ever reached her.  But he thought little of that.  Nothing could stop him from grasping her now. 

As he closed in, he caught wild, pale hair, matted in spots with crusted blood, bobbing above the heads of the mass of men.  She was standing.  She was alive.  She was there. But he could hardly tell more than that. There were Freys surrounding her, kept at bay by the wide and mighty swings of her sword.  She was backed into a recess, though, unable to escape. 

Finally, there was a break in the sea of bodies and Jaime caught his first glimpse of her in what felt like ages even if he saw her every night, an image so vivid it had been burned into the backs of his eyelids.  Here she was, though, her armor wet with blood, just as it had been back in Renly’s tent, and her right arm was wrapped around a young woman, dressed in mail and direwolf, weakly holding a sword while she used her other gloved hand to clutch her side, which bled between her fingertips. 

While there was a deep gash down Brienne’s thick neck, a wound still oozing from her hairline, and she was not putting any weight on her left foot, her eyes were calm blue waters, the color of the deep ocean before a storm erupted so fiercely, even the lowest sea creature felt the swells. Her thick lips were open, panting, twisted in determination. 

 _She thinks this is the end_. Jaime could not blame her, pinned as she was, and he felt a swell of pride in his belly that she was planning on dying with a sword in her hand. 

But it would not be today. 

“There,” Jaime pointed to Clegane.  The Hound left his side to force his way to the women, Jaime trailing slowly, the pain of the wound in his thigh finally reaching his addled brain. 

The need to reach her became a physical agony, more searing and torturous than all of his other wounds.  She did not even know he was there, so close to her that soon he would be able to grab her hand and pull her to him.  But still, he hobbled on, becoming slowed down by the press of fighting and a Bolton man rushing at him with a bludgeon. 

It was nothing to stop the man in pink with a punch of his sword right at the chest.  But it had cost him everything.  Clegane was on the wrong side of the group of Freys, yanking them from their prizes, closer to the girl than to Brienne.  The others were converging on the wench and gave the Hound a clear berth, which put more pressure on her.  But she could not give up. 

Before Jaime could think what he was doing, he hollered, “Brienne!” It was sweet relief to have her name tumble from his dry, cracked lips. And it succeeded in finally drawing her attention. 

Brienne looked up, hardly needing to search for him at all before her azure gaze settled on him.  There was a single heartbeat in which he watched with ease the emotions that flitted across freckles, pale skin, and blood.  Shock came first, followed with fear on its heels, most likely from finding him in the place where she had expected to die, and then there was a moment of bliss. Jaime wondered if she had thought of him as often as he had of her, if her nights were filled with what had been, if his voice haunted her in the day, pulling at her decisions and beliefs. He doubted that he could have guided her as well as she had him, but he had hoped that his own words to her would have warned her of this betrayal.  _Had she even thought for a moment that something was wrong before the seven hells opened up?_  

But it was not the time for such questions.  Her thick lips were wrapping around his name, calling to him, the sound of her voice a siren in the dark.  It was a breath, a sigh of contentment, and it filled his lungs. 

The next time she inhaled, though, her sapphire eyes had widened, and his name was a scream, torn from her raw throat. 

He tried to move faster and go to her, thinking that she was crying out for him to save her.  He never felt the blow to his temple.  He only saw one last image of Brienne launching herself towards him, hand outstretched and his name still falling from her lips, before everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry! Jaime's not dead!


	16. The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry to have delayed this update! I had a bit of a confidence crisis but it shouldn't have stopped me from posting. Thank you so much to everyone that is reading this and especially to those that are commenting because they really do mean the world to me and I apologize to anyone that had to wait for me to get myself together. These comments were my strength and my wake up call to post and enjoy! So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all!
> 
> Of course Coraleeveritas has been a major source of support. I feel her in this story because she has put of bit of her own heart and soul and A LOT of her time into this. So I apologize to her too because she deserves praise for putting up with me and I need to always remember her own blood, sweat, and tears in this and keep going. How are you so amazing, Coralee? 
> 
> As always, Sandwichesyumyum has been nothing but the greatest life line. Her thoughts about each chapter and her understanding, advice, and love have helped smack me a bit and get ready to move on. Thank you, my friend!
> 
> I also want to thank the girls in this fandom, those who have personally cheered me up and kept me boosted and loved. They always accept. They always make me smile. They always remind me of the good things. I am so lucky to have them in my life, inside and outside the fandom. <3
> 
> Also, I added a little more to the notes at the end. In this chapter and those coming up, please read it. Thank you!

This was the end.  And it mattered little to Brienne.  As soon as the doors to the great hall had been sealed behind her, she had felt all purpose, all thought, all hope drain from her like the blood from the bodies that littered the entrance to the keep.The red pooling in the gashes in the cobbles was running together to slither like snakes around their feet, seeping into flesh and cloth, steel and stone.  The sound of the lock, effectively sealing her off from the screams of men and the cry of metal, the butchery that she could only imagine lay on the other side, with the King and with her lady, still echoed in her mind. The din of death hammered at her from every view but she kept hearing that fateful shrieking turn above everything else. 

And yet, still she stood, keeping back the Freys that were trying to cut her down and snatch Lady Dacey from her grasp, too far away from the doors to make a dash and try to break them down.  All she had known was the song of steel, but it was now wailing in pity and horror in this dark place, leaving her lost and useless. Without it, she did not know why she still fought, nor did she care how many she had already cut down with her hands and her blade.  She could not stop to marvel at whose blood coated her armor and dried in her hair, soaking into her skin like warmed wine. 

Briefly, she wondered if it would ever end.  It felt like she had lived a lifetime in that space, swinging her sword and feeling it meet plating and bone over and over again. But she knew it was only a handful of heartbeats from when she had herded Lady Dacey out of the main hall, on their lady's command, after sensing that something was amiss from the young Frey's revulsion at the request of a dance.  A pang of sympathy had stabbed Brienne as she had dragged an offended Lady Dacey outside to calm herself before returning to the festivities. It was but a few blinks of an eye and the spot they had taken to converse had all but saved their lives, hidden as they were to the mass of Freys that had swelled into the room and made for the hall.  And yet it had doomed Brienne as well, since she could not make it to the doors before they were slammed in her face and she was overwhelmed with men pulling her away and trying to sink daggers between her plate and mail. 

With a pained and frightened cry from Lady Dacey, and enough room to draw her sword, Brienne had lost all sense of time.  All she knew was that she had to get back to the girl who was now hunched over and gripping her ribs, her own blade out and waving threateningly.  The world had shrunk to the spot they could not escape from and just as swiftly as it had begun, it would grow smaller until there was nothing and it would all finally end. 

In the same instant she heard someone call to her, she was contemplating which of the gods would come to take her.  She had prayed half heartedly over the years and had truly not even thought enough of it to decide if she really believed, but a small part of her had always hoped that the Mother had come for Galladon and her own mother. As she turned at the sound of her name piercing through the haze of ending, Brienne knew the Maiden, not the Warrior, was there to take her.  The gods had looked into her foolish, young heart and found her hidden desires, the dreams that had bubbled up through her nightmares.  Gold and emerald, broken and brilliant. 

It only took a breath for her gaze to find Jaime Lannister, drawn as she always was to his presence. Her first thought was that he had died after they had separated and he had come to bring her back to the other side with him.  But she had little time to dwell on if she would be joining him in one of the seven heavens or one of the hells, when the sudden weight of Lady Dacey crashing into her side reminded her she was very much alive, for the moment. 

Then reality rushed back in, filling her lungs and coursing through her veins. _Is he here with the Freys and Boltons? Are there Lannisters on their way? Had he known all along Lady Catelyn and I were heading towards our graves?_ But, just as anger and fear arose in her throat, she swallowed it down. Jaime was bloodied and alone, garbed in rough wool and linen, devoid of any lion or crimson, blonde hair disheveled and gray and gold stubble painting his cheeks and throat. He was not supposed to be there and yet he was, looking at her in a way that she could not recall anyone ever gazing upon her before.  It colored her fevered flesh, firmed her shaking hands, and forced back all thought but the cage of green eyes that held her down and pulled her to him. Jaime Lannister would never let her go again.  And she did not want to leave. 

As he tossed her a smile of triumph and relief, causing Brienne to wonder how he could seem so calm and cocky in the middle of chaos, and made to move towards her, Brienne caught the dull sheen of a bludgeon rising up behind him. All concern for drawing attention to the Lannister’s arrival ceased as a Frey knight brought down the weapon directly onto Jaime's head.  She had only a moment to cry out a warningbefore he was crumpled amongst the blood and bodies. 

Without thought, Brienne tucked Lady Dacey protectively against her armor and flung herself into the men that had cornered them like cattle, ignoring the stinging slices of steel as she shoved through.  The blood sliding from her cuts felt just as cold on her flushed skin as it did running through her body, fear turning her heart to ice. 

Hearing a booming curse closing in on her, Brienne felt thick, gloved fingers reaching out to grab her.  But she was too intent upon Jaime’s motionless form and squirmed free so that she could kneel and slide on her poleyns, skimming across wet stone, to reach him. Lady Dacey was able to prop herself up against the wall next to them, eyeing her suspiciously as Brienne ran her hands along Jaime’s chest, feeling the faint flutter of a heartbeat and the weak rising as he took in shallow breaths. 

He was alive.  And he was warm, even through her gauntlets.  She felt his heat burn her, revive her, fill her as he always had.  But why he was there or what he had hoped to accomplish was worth nothing now if she could not focus.  Otherwise, they would simply die together, along with the rest of the Stark forces. 

 _Bread and salt_ , Lady Catelyn had been chanting since they had entered the Twins _.  Blood and betrayal_ had echoed in the hungry eyes of the Freys and Boltons _._   Brienne should have seen it, but she had ignored the way her stomach twisted under the pale gaze of Roose Bolton and the sickening leer of Walder Frey. As soon as the doors crashed closed, she had been ready to die because of the guilt that was eating away at her.  Her lady was already dead, most likely.  Brienne had failed her just as she had failed Renly.  Yet, in her arms was a man who still breathed.  He may be called the Kingslayer to the rest, but it was Jaime Lannistershe cradled now, forgetting the screams, the laughter, the death that attempted to envelope them, but could not touch them. 

“Fucking hells, woman, get the fuck up,” roared the large, hulking man who had tried to snatch her. 

Brienne looked up at him, but she did not raise her sword, which she still held by her side, as she drew Jaime further into her breast. She thought that she should have recognized the twisted mass of burnt flesh that masked one side of his face. But he wore no sigil, just like Jaime. He was just another ghost to haunt her. 

In the stolen and achingly slow moment that Brienne was able to stare in confusion up at the man, she was suddenly aware that the entrance was empty of the living, save for them.  At some point, blind as she had been to anything besides reaching Jaime, the killing had stopped, at least in their hidden shadows before the great hall. Outside, though, the fires still burned hot, seemingly fuelled by cackling and shrieking, manic laughter, and the hellish sounds of macabre. 

She wondered if there were any Starks left.  There had been so many before, clearly outnumbering the Freys. And now that her mind was slowly skittering to catch up to the present and becoming snagged on Jaime’s presence, she understood the sour twist of Lord Bolton’s pale, thin lips as he reported to King Robb on his losses after taking the Ruby Ford and Harrenhal. He had appeared to be apologetic for the men that had fallen to Gregor Clegane, but now Brienne knew it to be displeasure at not having trapped enough Stark loyalists to make this an easier kill. 

 _What does it truly matter, though?_   She speculated how long it would be before the doors opened and the ravenous Freys and Boltons found them and skinned the flesh from their bodies. Their appetite could not possibly have been sated from the morsels that had been left in the hall after Ser Edmure’s bedding.  Brienne did not know where they could run or what they could do to escape. While she felt she did not deserve to survive this night, she had to get Jaime and Lady Dacey out.   

Sensing Brienne’s hesitance, Lady Dacey struggled to push her back up the wall, bringing her own blade to the man’s massive chest. The sharp, bloodied tip looming so close to his unarmored heart caught his attention and he turned his stormy, thirsty eyes on her.  "Who are you now?" he snapped, licking his lips as he smirked down at her. "The Kingslayer only mentioned an unattractive get in armor.  He must have left out the tasty treat for himself, the bugger." 

"You rode with Ser Jaime?" Brienne demanded.  Her voice was thick and small, coming from a throat coated in bile and panic.  But something must have cut through the man's bloodlust to make him turn back to where she was still kneeling and holding Jaime. 

Before he could answer, the sound of boots at the entrance, sliding across slick cobbles, brought them all to the ready. Three men came slinking through the shadows, purposefully moving towards them, though their weapons were not raised. They were in the same muted and unthreatening colors as Jaime and the burned man beside her, similarly wounded and worried.  As they came closer and the light from the blazes outside, and the few torches that still guttered with life in the room, caught their faces, Brienne recognized one of the Lannister hostages from King Renly's camp. It felt like a memory from a life that someone else had lived, not the girl huddled on the floor of a strange and dangerous castle. 

"Clegane," the young knight with a charming, rugged face and burnished hair hissed with a frown.  He took in their surroundings and Brienne noticed the glint in his eyes and the quirk at the corner of his mouth. The way he casually assessed and processed the situation made her think he possessed a cunning similar to the man she refused to release from her arms.  

Turning to the others with him, he murmured clipped commands and they set off. Brienne was shocked to see them flipping over corpses, hands steady and eyes hardly flinching as they roved through carnage and treachery.  When they came across one of the few Frey or Bolton bodies in the room, they began hurriedly tugging at cloaks and doublets. 

A gentle hand on her shoulder startled her and she found herself looking up into the man's eyes.  Ser Addam. She had heard Jaime hail to him once and thought that had been his name. 

"Lady Brienne," he said tentatively, as if he was edging towards a wild mare.  "Jaime sent us to find you.  We have to leave. Now." 

 _Leave?_ She could not leave.  Looking back behind her, she saw that the doors to the great hall were still firmly shut. There were no longer cries and shouts coming from inside.  If she strained, though, she thought she could make out hooting and cackling seeping through the oak that kept her from her lady, her vows, her resolve. She was supposed to die in there. 

"Take Lady Dacey," Brienne replied while still clutching Jaime and staring at the doors.  "I have to stay-" 

With a hard shake that tossed her head, Ser Addam forced her to glare at him once again.  "Jaime didn't risk his and all of our lives for you to throw yourself on a blade. Grab him and get up." 

He stood, leaving Brienne frowning and muddled as she stared at where he had been, and ordered Clegane to carry Lady Dacey.  He resolutely took the bundle of clothes, flayed men and castles tumbling in his hands and flying through the air as he tossed one at each of them. Wordlessly, he threw on a Frey tunic over his head and stormed out of the entrance, not even bothering to cast a final look at his friend and the unfortunate maiden that held him. 

Once the large man, Clegane, and Lady Dacey were also dressed, he snatched the Mormont girl up at the waist and slammed her into his hip. She gasped in pain and outrage, kicking her feet, though they did not reach the floor.  Brienne had her own moment of panic as her haze lifted enough to realize that the Mountain’s brother was grabbing the young woman. _Why would Jaime bring this man?_  

"I can walk!" Lady Dacey protested. 

"Not fast enough," he replied.  Turning back to Brienne, he gave her a disgusted look, ugly and armored, sitting as she was, looming over the handsome and golden man resting on her legs like they were laying in a field of grass and he was lounging in the lap of his lady love.  She felt insignificant and helpless and she clutched at Jaime's shirt like he could give her strength.  "Snap out of it, woman, and follow me.  There's a cart we can load these two on.  If we all don't die first." 

They left her, Clegane hoisting Lady Dacey further on his hip as she tried to slip from the circle of his powerful arm.  They both raised their swords though, once they were outside. They were right to expect her to follow. She had failed so many times already but Ser Jaime would have simply laughed at her, mocking her guilt and self-pity.  He knew about failureafter all. Yet, for all of theirs, he had still come and now he needed her to escape. 

He was surprisingly heavy, but a burst of energy bolstered her resolve, and the feeling of his muscles sliding under her palms, helped her to lift them both and cradle him against her. There would be archers, if they were not already climbing from their cowardly hiding spotsto bask in the revelry of execution.  So, while it would have been easier to sling Jaime over her shoulder, she kept him in her arms, using her body to protect him from any arrows that may be launched their way. 

Once she edged outside of the entrance room, crouching low and following the wall, she fought a battle within herself not to look out at the courtyard. The heat from tents and bodies being set ablaze washed over her face as she moved, making her skin burst with sweat, mingling with drying blood and stinging her cuts.   The river of heat and pain continued down into her armor, Brienne becoming trapped in metal and flesh.  But she could not be drawn into the flickering light and the raucous noise. Her own mind filled in the images of butchery and horror playing out around her, but it would be worse to truly witness it.  She would then become a survivor of this story, driven to tell the tale, and that was something she could not do. 

So, she kept her gaze on Jaime, using him as her anchor. As she shuffled away from the steps, keeping Clegane and Lady Dacey in her periphery, she watched his nostrils softly flare as he still breathed.  He was resting against her chest plate, the warm air escaping his nose fogging the metal. She longed to push back his golden locks, matted with sweat, from the pale eyelashes that fluttered and twitched. It all seemed silly, the way that he laid easily in her arms and appeared even content there. But the dance of his fluttering eyelids above his jerking gaze, and the dark, thick smear of blood on her armor from the blow to the back of his arrogant, reckless head, worried her to no end. 

She only tore herself away when Ser Addam’s hands came into view, still calm and moving sharply, to yank him from her, and quickly threw Jaime like a sheaf of wheat into a cart littered with rubbish and cloths.  He absently motioned for Brienne to follow, running a hand through his coppery hair, dragging blood from his gloves into the strands as he watched Lady Dacey hobble in next to Jaime. 

Clegane was hastily tightening harnesses on the largest warhorse Brienne had ever seen, aswhat may have been the last Stark loyalistsettled herself down into the cart. But the other men who had accompanied Ser Addam were not nearby and Brienne refused to steal a glance into the bloodied courtyard to look for them. 

The heat from the fires was intensifying and smoke was beginning to waft heavily through the air, weighed down by the thick moisture that still clung to the night, though the rains had smartly fled at some point during the chaos. Stifling a cough as the clouds niggled at the back of her tongue, Brienne jumped down from the overhang with a grunt. Without asking, she made her way over to the cart as Clegane was hoisting himself into the seat. 

Ser Addam was at her heels, handing her two large shields hastily painted a sunset pink and splayed with an angry red man, bound and flayed to posts. “You shouldn’t have to worry about anyone stopping you, but should anyone attack, use these to keep Jaime and your friend protected.” 

Brienne nodded dumbly and clumsily scrambled into the cart, handing Lady Dacey one of the shields while she positioned the other over Jaime, not bothering to see if she could squeeze her large frame in as well.  By the time she had turned around, expecting Ser Addam to be in with her, she found them alone in the shadowed recess next to the great hall. And she had only a moment’s dull thought about how he could hope to escape before Clegane set his monstrous courser at a full out run. 

The stallion raced so fast that the hell around them blurred. The world was reduced to nothing but reds, oranges, and pinks, swirling through the bleakness and flashing before her.  She could not tell if it was fire or blood or simply the end of it all.  Looking down, the sparks of light cast shadows against Jaime's paling skin, sinking into the curves of his features, turning him into a creature unrecognizable before brightness washed across them again, chasing away the dark and making him look like a god.  _Which is he though? Is he the man that murdered his king, sired false ones with his sister, and tried to kill a boy? Or is he the knight that plucked me from the Stranger's hands?_

 _What's the difference?_  

"Brienne!" she heard someone cry out next to her.  Startled, she looked up to find Lady Dacey as white as snow, mouth contorted in horror as she watched something behind them. 

Reluctantly, Brienne turned and found that they were hastily making their way out of the castle.  She could barely make out the faces of the mob that had formed at the entrance to the great hall, but she saw their torches and the flames catching on raised and bloodied swords and axes.  Floating above the mass was a body, lifelessly bouncing as it was passed from out stretched hand to grasping hand.  The head had been torn off, so fresh that even from afar Brienne could see the dark red blood fly from the neck as it was tossed, but she recognized the clothes easily enough. 

Lady Dacey did not even bother tipping herself over the side of the cart and simply retched what little she had eaten at the wedding into the bed of the cart. Brienne pitied her, having to see her king as such.  She thought about consoling her, telling her it became easier after each one, but for some reason, she knew it was the wrong thing to say.  Lady Dacey would learn soon enough.  There were plenty of kings still left, after all. 

When they reached the drawbridge, Brienne was stunned to see that it was lowered. The Freys must have thought that no Stark would reach that far and escape.  But the cart was suddenly jostled, almost rolling over, as Clegane drove his beast onwards.  Peering to the rear once again, to see what they had ridden over, was a mistake. Though they were little more than heaps of red flesh now, Brienne could make out torn tunics of dual castles stomped into the mangled flesh of what must have been the gatekeepers. 

Surprisingly, they did not continue far, though every muscle in Breinne's body was screaming to run, escape, hide, cry, cry, cry.  Instead, Clegane guided them off the path and along the curtained walls of the fortress.  By the time they reached a small hill, right before the rest of the castle drowned into the Green Fork, they came upon a man, tall and wiry and dressed in the same drab grays and browns, holding the harnesses of several horses. 

He ran to them, only slightly frowning at Jaime's prone form held securely under Brienne, before helping Lady Dacey down from the cart. 

"That one will ride with me," Clegane said.  He had already shuffled off his seat and was cutting the bindings that held his courser steady.  "The Kingslayer's bitch can carry him on her horse." 

The other man simply nodded and handed Brienne a set of reins. She thought perhaps she would have argued if she could remember how to work her tongue or what she should be doing instead. She was not surprised to see Lady Dacey slapping Clegane's hands away to vault herself up into the saddle, though she let him put his arms around her as he spurred his warhorse, not even looking back.  It seemed that the men Jaime brought with him were under the impression that she would simply follow, yet again. 

The other man helped Brienne gingerly drag Jaime from the cart, mindful not to mess his curls in Lady Dacey's vomit, and sling him across the neck of Brienne's mount.  He held him while she shakily got into the saddle and then she took him again, keeping him safe between her legs and resting his head on her knee. 

Once the man was ready, they set off at a brisk trot, careful not to jostle Jaime too much, and headed south.  The light from the fires and the sounds from inside the Twins faded slowly, becoming swallowed up in a misty, humid evening dark and quiet enough that Brienne could hear her labored breathing and the hammering, stuttering clang of her heart. The silence held its own reverberating, overwhelming noise that muddied her fraying thoughts even more. 

 _Had it all been a dream? How could the world hold so much death and fire and screams just a moment ago and now I’m drowning in cold and quiet?_  

There was nothing but the soft hum of darkness and the changing impact of hooves hitting pebbles or grass or spongy mud to reply to her silent questions.   And Brienne found she could see little past the end of her mount’s muzzle.  She could barely discern the soft swishing tail of the horse she was following, its rider cloaked even further in the night, though it made no difference if she could look upon him or not.  He would still be a stranger, a Lannister knight if she had to guess, and she would still be trailing after him blindly, putting all of her faith in the golden man that was slung over her saddle, who could offer her no words of comfort or hope. 

She guided her horse like that for what could have been moments or hours. Finally, as they sloshed through a narrow and shallow part of a roaring stream that may have been part of any of the Forks, for all that she had been able to keep track of their surroundings, she saw soft lights and pale smoke creeping through a cropping of trees and bushes.  The man steered carefully to a large, hidden cottage, directing his horse and picking out a rough and patchy path. 

When they were close enough for Brienne to see a home built from sturdy logs and covered with pine and mud from the banks of the river, the man let out a soft hoot, like an owl calling into the night.  At the sound, the front door burst open, casting warm and sharp light into the darkness, slashing through cold air and dewy grass, snaking up the thick legs of the horses and blinding Brienne momentarily as it bounced off her armor.  

As she peered with a squinted gaze, she saw Ser Addam come bounding out, followed by a short, round woman in worn, thick skirts that kicked reluctantly around her ankles as she puffed to keep up with the young knight.  They both made for Brienne as the other man easily dismounted and joined Ser Addam in pulling Jaime from her horse’s neck.  She started to protest, but the woman snatched her hands, placing her cold gauntlets between warm, thick flesh, and tugged. 

“Let them take him, child,” she shushed in a high voice that made Brienne think of a squirrel clutched in the talons of a falcon.  “Come, come.  There’s so much _blood_.” 

Brienne thought it was an odd thing to say, since the world was becoming nothing but blood and death, but she slung herself over the saddle all the same and allowed herself to be dragged through the door and into the light. The sight that met her forced her eyes to clamp down, retreating into shadows and sounds.  There were so many voices, so much panic and anger, the clanging of metal, creaking of springs and the whisper of water and cloth. 

When she opened her eyes, she was drawn to Ser Addam, and the man who had ridden with her, setting Jaime down on a cot, where a young slip of a pretty girl rushed to his side and began tearing at his breeches and tunic, searching for sources of the blood that coated his clothes and was flaking off the stubble on his temple and cheek.  She wanted to go to him, to lay down beside him and shut out the world, but the older woman was still flitting about her, yanking and muttering, slowly removing pieces of armor like she was peeling the shell from a beetle. 

Meanwhile, Clegane was sitting on a stool in a darkened corner, properly ignored by the frenzy in the room, as far as he could get from the blazing fire in a flue that Brienne could have walked into without ducking her head.  She idly wondered if perhaps this place had once been a great hall and had now become the living quarters of a poor family trying to hide from war and hunger, though it had settled upon their doorstep like a rabid dog, waiting for them to chance a look outside.  

With her armor removed, Brienne was relieved to see that there were few cuts or dried blood in her doublet and tunic, though she was wincing as she took shallow pulls of air.  

There were so many faces surrounding her, too many for Brienne to truly grasp. A man with a thin left leg, and a crutch near his knee, was sitting on a stool, tearing linen with worn hands and sharp teeth.  There were two lads, dressed like the other Lannister men Jaime had brought, bustling between the girl and the older woman and a large, muscular knight, almost as big as Clegane, that was lounging against a wall, taking in the mayhem but not even budging when one of the boys had to crawl between him and the wall to snatch a jug at the knight’s feet before he shot out a thick leg to kick the boy away. 

But there was something about what appeared to be a pile of cloths close to the fireplace that Brienne’s weary and blurred gaze kept flitting to as she tried to take in the chaos of the room.  An older, benevolent looking man was puffing himself out as he stood before it, feet splayed and arms crossed menacingly as dark eyes watched Clegane and Ser Addam carefully.  He reminded Brienne of the guard dogs that had sat at her father’s feet while he idly wrote missives from his driftwood desk.  And she wondered whose master this blustery knight belonged to. 

Taking a step closer, Brienne peered deeper into the bundle of furs and wool, spotting silky ribbons of auburn that caught fire as they glinted in the red light from the hearth. 

“Lady Brienne,” she heard Ser Addam say cautiously. 

She ignored him and moved to her right, accidently plowing into the old woman, who had worked her way to Brienne’s greaves.  Absently, without pulling her stare away, Brienne reached out a hand to steady her even as she inched further forward, trying to look around the knight who was moving to block her view.  Between his thighs and hidden amongst the folds, she noticed pale skin, splashed with soft freckles that appeared enticing on the smooth flesh, much unlike the dirty marks that smeared Brienne’s body. 

“Lady Brienne, I need you over here,” Ser Addam called, a tinge of urgency lacing his steady voice. 

But she had finally seized the attention of the body in the heap and cool blue eyes turned to hold her down, freezing her as effectively as if she had slipped her feet through an ice covered pond.  The familiarity of that regard was haunting and for a sliver of a moment, Brienne was tempted to fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness, pleading to a specter hiding amongst the living. 

“Sansa Stark,” she gasped.  She could hardly even form the words, realizing she had spoken little since their escape and her throat was still cracked from her cries in that small, suffocating chamber outside the great hall.  “How did Sansa Stark come-“ 

“Jaime brought her from King’s Landing,” Ser Addam interrupted. “And I think he’s waking up.” 

The utterances finally worked into her sluggish mind and she dragged her head away from Lady Catelyn’s eldest daughter to find Ser Addam bending over the cot where Jaime laid while the young girl mopped at his damp hair with a pillowy cloth.  He was frowning in his sleep, tossing his head fitfully like an agitated lion, shaking off the girl and clutching at the thin sheet that covered his body up to his naked chest. 

Brienne was aware that Ser Addam had straightened to watch her and she blushed as she tried to steal glances of sweat beading on the soft golden curls around Jaime’s taut, bronze nipples and how the working of his jaw pulsed a thick vein down the side of his neck, where the ball in his throat bobbed under stubble and skin, and disappeared into the muscles of his shoulder.  Since his injury, it was the most alive Jaime had seemed and it brought a wash of warmth over her cheeks at the realization that she would have to face him after he had rescued her.  And Sansa Stark. 

“We came across Clegane here with the younger wolf,” Ser Addam offered gently. 

With a raised brow, Brienne looked towards Clegane, but he merely scoffed and jutted his square chin at the girl across the room, looking every bit a hungry dog eyeing a bone.  She followed his gaze and realized that Sansa was not alone in the bundle of fabric.  Nestled against her, and blending into the dark cloth, was another child, all grays and browns, dirty and wild.  She was wrapped up in her older sister, though her cold eyes did not miss a single detail of the room.  Jaime had managed to find both Stark girls. 

 _And I could not even keep their mother safe._  

Brienne frowned.  “Is-is Lady Arya _gagged_?” 

“She bites, that one,” one of the lads chimed in, unconsciously wrapping his fingers around a red and angry wound on the side of his other hand. 

 _One frightened maiden and one wild and feral wolf.  Where will they go? Who will take them in? How could I have let this happen?_  

“Brienne.”  The room turned quiet at the sound of Jaime’s voice, or so she thought. She knew the others were looking at her and turning to look at him, but she was a coward.  She simply basked in echoes, not being able to recall how long it had been since she had heard him for true and not just simple reverberations in her chest, a growl in her ear, a hum against her tongue. 

Finally, she moved towards him, though his eyes were still shut and he appeared to still have fits shaking his body.  The young girl glided away as Brienne neared and she replaced her at the spot by Jaime’s elbow, hating the way the cot dipped with her weight, even unarmored as she was, so that he slid slightly towards her.  His brow creased together in discomfort at that. Before she could stop herself, she studied the way his nostrils flared and the locks of his hair curled around his ears. 

“Brienne,” he called again. 

“I-I’m here, Ser Jaime,” she whispered.  If she had looked like the girl that hovered close by, she may have reached out to sooth the white knuckled fist that was still twisting the blankets. Instead, she gripped her own thighs to keep herself from touching him.  “You brought the Stark girls.  I cannot thank you enough…but their mother-“ 

“I wasn’t there for their mother,” Jaime hissed. 

“But…” 

“I came for you, you stubborn cow.  Ow!” Just as he was sounding more like himself, Jaime lifted one of his hands to press against his temple while he hissed through his white teeth in pain. He bit down on his cracked lower lip and sucked at it as he fought against a torment.  “Gods, that hurts.” 

“What is it?” she asked.  “What’s wrong?” 

“My bloody head,” Jaime groaned.  He tossed some more on the pillow, which fanned out his hair, and finally parted his golden lashes to open his eyes.  The shock of rich green stole Brienne’s breath, not realizing how much she had needed Jaime to look upon her again.  

He was still frowning, though, alternatively blinking and wincing. “Brienne?” He sounded panicked and he reached out for her, his hand bumping against her knee and then her stomach, rising to graze her ribs, before she snatched it and grabbed for his shoulder to keep him from sitting up anymore.  It was difficult to ignore the feeling of smooth skin and old, puckered scars sliding against the calluses of her palm.  “Wench?” 

“I’m here, Jaime,” she snapped.  _Why is he looking all around? Why does he seem so scared?_   “Look at me!” 

“Seven hells, I can’t,” he snarled back, suddenly pushing her away. “I can’t fucking see!”


	17. The Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no words for the gratitude I have for everyone that has supported this story! Thank you!
> 
> Despite all the amazing stories that Coraleeveritas has planned for this fandom, she always makes time for me and this piece and that makes me feel so special and cared for. I greatly appreciate all of the love that she gives and for her invaluable opinions. She is always right!
> 
> I will always be thankful for the time, keen eye, and wonderful words of Sandwichesyumyum. She never fails to make me smile and that's what this is all about! Fun, friends, and fandom!

The world was a deep black.  Jaime could feel the expanse of it drowning him, stretching out to become endless and eternal. It gave him the odd sensation that his limbs were weightless and he could float along forever in the nothingness that was all he would know now.  But everything was spinning hard enough that he could not get his bearings, not even while grasping the rough linen of the blankets over him and trying to ground himself on the pallet.  There was only a bottomless darkness that swallowed up even the memory of sight. Yet he was still aware of the realm that was lurking on the other side of the shroud.  The dueling sensations of solidity and soaring made his stomach roll and he lurched, waiting for burning bile to tear up his throat. 

“Jaime,” came Brienne’s voice from the abyss.  She sounded hollow and distant, like she was just an echo of a dream he could not shake upon waking.  But, even through the pain and nausea, he could still make out her concern as she stumbled over his name, dampening the sweetness he had expected upon their reunion. “What do you mean you can’t see?” 

Suddenly, there was a flurry and a commotion, which came to Jaime as buzzing worry, voices melding together as they spoke all at once. And then there were hands upon him. Some were gnarled and small, others rough and strong, and more were simply unfamiliar touches that poked and pulled, but he never knew where they would touch next.  Still, those around him continued to talk over each other as if his lack of sight meant he could also not hear.  

He had not realized that he was struggling and trying to rise before all of the hands were tugging him down, digging into the flesh on his arms and shoulders to keep him steady. 

“Get off,” he snarled. 

The voices died away as the hands retreated, save a pair he knew immediately were Brienne’s.  Her fingers were calloused and dry, skipping around his collarbone as she hovered nervously near his side, waiting for him to jump again.  He felt a breeze across his face, slightly swirling his hair, and assumed that someone was trying to wave an arm in front of him to see if he would react. He growled in annoyance and Brienne’s touch firmed on his neck. 

“He-he was hit in the head,” Brienne whispered to their companion. 

_Was I?_ The last moment he could recall was merely red and fear and death, with Brienne, clear in his mind and still very much alive, holding a wounded woman and trying to keep off a flock of Freys with her sword. 

There was a sudden tug on his curls, which caused him to hiss in pain and try to snatch at whoever was still prodding at him.  He only found a hard hip to his right, layered in sweaty woolen breeches, and air on his left, though he was sure his attacker had barely managed to slip out of his grasp. 

“Stay still, Ser,” Brienne murmured. 

In irritation, Jaime squeezed her side and hoped that it pinched. But her gentle touch on him did not change while the fingers in his hair grew more insistent, running along his scalp until they brushed across a tender area and he was forced to slam his eyes shut at the returning pain.  Unfortunately, he did not slip into unconsciousness and was quite aware that closing his eyes was a ridiculously pointless act, the blind man trying to shut out the dark with more darkness.  But it helped release some of the tension that had built immediately with the agony. 

“Ah, there it is,” came the voice of the old woman who lived in the cottage they had left Sansa in on their way to the Twins. 

He groaned, not caring if the others were watching him writhe and continue to press his eyelids down.  Though, since he could not see even with his eyes wide open, he did not expect the tug and squeeze that jolted sharp bolts of pain down to his toes.  The world was not black any longer.  It was a motley of white sparks, some long and streaking like lightning strikes and others manifesting as hazy splotches that looked like fireflies, all of them burning his eyes and sending new shivers of aching through his head. 

Brienne’s grip was tight now.  Her warm palms pressing into his shoulders kept him from passing out, from giving in to the swarming darkness that sucked in the bursts of light and closed around him once more.  So, with no other comfort being offered,  he focused on the slide of her hip in his hand as she sat down beside him, still keeping hold of him. He sought out her large, familiar, presence as she kept herself from touching him anymore than her hands running soothingly down his arms.  

Part of him wanted to mock Brienne for forgetting herself. It was the only reason he could think that she would allow her maidenly virtue to be besmirched by caressing the Kingslayer’s naked torso.  But if he called attention to it, then she may stop and, at the moment, her touch was his sight. He may only be able to see her, forming the image of her hunched next to him, blue eyes darting with worry and big teeth chewing at her thick lip, but it was enough. 

“Nasty bruise, that,” the old woman grumbled, finally pulling her wretched fingers  from his hair. “Might be he sees again. Might be he don’t.” 

“We don’t have time for this,” the Strongboar barked.  “The place is crawling with Boltons and Freys and I don’t want to be seen with the last surviving Starks.” 

“Then what did you mean to do with them, Ser?” Brienne demanded. She released one of Jaime’s shoulders and turned slightly on the cot, probably facing the others. “They are young girls who need our help to get them home.” 

Another voice piped up, one that Jaime barely remembered as of the guardsmen, Ryn. “The Kingslayer ain’t said nothing about _protecting_. We get out the ugly maiden dressed like a knight and we go home.” 

Brienne tensed next to him and removed her hand from his skin, leaving him bereft of her reassurance and the vision he had painted of a blurry room he vaguely recalled and a girl he could place every freckle on. Despite the words, she did not respond. They were a truth, after all, and she knew it. 

“Home?” Ser Bonifer snapped from some distance.  “The Stark heirs have no home and now no family left.” There was a quiet, muffled sob that was dainty in its tremor.  “My apologies, My Lady.  I have no desire to return to serving a house that would massacre an entire army under guest right.” 

Jaime heard a snort from somewhere to his right, past Brienne. “You’ve got to admit that it’s effective,” Ser Jon said.  After a heavy pause, weighted with a sniffle and a muffled curse, he reluctantly grumbled, “Sorry.” 

A sharp slam made Jaime jerk his head too quickly, wincing when the lights danced again.  Clegane was growling, the sound thundering through Jaime’s temples.  “Fuck the Starks, fuck the Lannisters and go to hells, the lot of you.  Somebody owes me coin.” 

“Gods, your voice is like grating steel,” Jaime moaned. 

As the throbbing began again, churning and swelling, washing up his stomach and lungs, a bubbling humor, as dark as his sight, surfaced as well. It started in his belly, trembling as it was already with nausea, and slithered up his chest, twining in his ribs, before it coated his throat and yanked at his tongue, demanding to tear loose from his mouth.  He let it release, sending out a long, ominous laugh which had him bent over his knees as he sucked in air. He cackled at them all, sitting on the other side of the veil and arguing at where to go while he was cloaked in black, as unseen to them as they were to him.  He was so consumed in the unfairness of it all that tears sprung to his blind eyes and wet his cheeks, not knowing if he was laughing or crying. 

The turmoil brought back the lights and the pain.  This time he knew he would either faint into unconsciousness, in front of more people than he was aware of, or heave up all over his chest. Not being able to bear any more humiliation, he swung his feet off the cot.  He tried to keep his legs from tangling with Brienne’s, who he knew was still sitting beside him, but his heels caught her as he scrambled up and she stood quickly as well. 

“Jaime…” Addam began as his voice drew closer and he could hear the sound of his footsteps. 

He stumbled forward, toward what he prayed was the direction of the door, when he tripped on an object that clanged and rolled when he disturbed it. A pail, perhaps. Cursing, he kept moving until Brienne was grabbing him again, pulling him to her side so that he could use her solid form to maintain his balance. 

“Where are you going, Ser?” she murmured to him. 

“You should lay back down,” Addam said.  He tried to place a hand on his arm, but Jaime snatched it away as soon as he felt his hairs raise and prickle at the hovering fingers. Brienne’s body jerked on his other side and he knew she was shaking her head at Addam, silently indicating he should retreat. 

_Good. Let them all be nervous and scared of the unpredictable lion.  I may not have my eyes, but I still have my teeth._  

“I’m going outside, wench,” he snarled and had to immediately swallow to keep down more rising bile.  “Find someone else if you want to play wet nurse.” He twisted forcefully to wrench out of her hold, but as soon as he was free, he staggered again and had to clamp a hand to his mouth to stop the waves of pain and queasiness knocking him to his knees. 

With a sound through her nose that reminded Jaime of gull swallowing an overlarge fish, Brienne roughly dug her strong hands into his flesh and practically hauled him out of the cabin and into the cool night air. They did not stop until Jaime could no longer make out the noises from inside and he was enveloped in the smell of moist grass and dark earth, the crisp breeze wetting his skin with the promise of chilly rain. 

He devoured the fresh breath and gulped it down, trying to cool his insides. Brienne released him just enough that he could slither to the ground on his knees and rock back to rest on his heels.  Her hands were still close, though, their warmth keeping gooseflesh from blooming on his exposed chest. 

“The old woman did not think this permanent,” she offered gently. 

He wanted to laugh at her again, but he knew he was close to vomiting. “I’m blind, Brienne. If I see tomorrow or ten years from this moment, it does not matter _now_.” 

“I’m sorry, Jaime.” She made choking sounds that muffled her words and then she snorted quietly. 

_Gods, is she crying? And for what?_ _The Kingslayer_?He doubted that. But then, through his own inner darkness and melancholy, Jaime slowly recalled all that she had been through and could only imagine what more she had suffered while he had been blissfully unconscious. 

“Stop apologizing, you foolish thing,” he snapped.  He had not meant to sound harsh and angry, but he found the taste of hurtful remarks to be sweet in his fevered, furious mind. “What good do they do? I’m still blind, your lady is still dead, and you are still alone and ugly.” 

At the moment that he felt her straighten and step back, leaving him to bask in his hatred and need for her, he had to slam the heels of his palms into the damp dirt, digging them in as he arched his back and heaved out what little was in his stomach and continued to retch nothing but his moans and gasps. 

Brienne spun around and walked away, the sound of her boots squelching in the grass mixing with his dry sobs.  She was right to leave him there.  What good was he to her now? He could not return to King’s Landing and help Tyrion. He could not go with Brienne and her new wards, though she had not yet realized that was what they were. He was just a worthless soul, writhing in the grass in the hopes that the cool blades would quench some of the fire burning just below his skin. 

When she returned, he was on his back, legs and arms thrown away from his body, groaning once more.  At least he did not feel like vomiting again, though he remained worried about moving too much, in case he ended up rolling in the contents of his stomach. 

“Sit up,” Brienne said. 

He did so, surprised and humbled that there was no anger laced in that simple command.  Instead, she sounded confused, panicky, and Jaime imagined the way her blue eyes would dart, as if she was trying to see all around her but focus on nothing. He could see how her weight would shift, all ready to fight her way out, warring with an enemy that had grown and festered only in her thoughts.  Indeed, he could just make out the soft rustle of grass and leaves as her feet alternated crunching them. 

“Put your hands out.” 

Again, he silently complied, opening his arms and partly expecting her to fall into them.  Instead, there was a rough clay cup pressed into one palm and he instinctively closed his fingers around it. In the other, she placed a clean tunic. 

He brought the cup to his lips and gulped down the stale water appreciatively. His stomach protested slightly at swelling from the liquid, but the pain had receded in the stillness of the silent night and with it, the urge to heave up the emptiness in his belly. 

When he was done, the cup was promptly removed from his grasp. With Brienne hovering farther than before, he was well aware of the damp chill in the air and he shivered faintly while his teeth clacked in his head.  With trembling fingers, he grasped the woolen tunic, which he knew was not his own, and began fumbling to try to find the opening to slip over his head. 

After some murmured curses, Jaime listened to the earth yield to thick knees, the air parting so that Brienne could move back into his space. If they had not been alone in the hushed forest, he may have refused her help.  But he was cold and she was once again choosing to stay close to him. And pride was a bitter tang on his tongue. 

With a gentleness that contradicted the strength he had witnessed numerous times before, the top was slipped over his hair.  Brienne’s fingers dug through the tunic to ensure that his nose did not get caught in the collar and it slid easily down to his neck. After a moment’s hesitation, filled with Jaime twisting himself up in the fabric, trying to find the sleeves, Brienne shuffled closer and grabbed one of his wrists.  He stilled immediately, letting her guide him towards one armhole. Though once he managed to feed his hand through, she let go.  But her touch returned on his other side, briefly, to help him with the sleeve there. 

When he was in the shirt, she tugged it down, the nails of her fingers raking over his stomach and catching in the hair at his lower abdomen. As the ripple of his muscles warned her of the touch, she gasped and snatched her hands away.  The sound lingered near Jaime’s ear, echoing. Had he been able to see her, he may have followed her maidenly retreat to demand that she stay in his space, that she gasp again but not flinch away.  But he would only grab at air now and had no reasons for her to stay near. 

“Ser Addam told me about the Stark children,” Brienne finally whispered. She sounded far off, a spooked quarry crouching out of striking range but too frightened to flee and lose sight of her stalker.  “You took Sansa…before she had to marry your brother.  You found Arya and-and convinced the Hound to give her up. You protected them.” 

Jaime had to cough a couple times before his throat would open and his tongue would behave long enough to push out his words.  “I don’t have to see you to know you’re surprised, wench. Of course you wouldn’t think the Kingslayer possible of such things.” 

She bristled.  He could feel the air between them crackle as she shifted on her knees and sat up straighter. “It’s not that,” she snapped, clamping her jaw closed audibly, as if she were holding back more from escaping past her teeth.  “You were home. Things…things would have changed.” 

He laughed at that.  It was just as mirthless as his earlier fit amongst the others and it sent Brienne shuffling back in the grass a bit, moving on her rear.  Pulling from the recesses of the darkness, letting the sounds from the other side surround him, Jaime shot out his hand and managed to latch onto her large ankle. She halted immediately, but he did not let go as she stilled beneath his fingers. 

“Oh, things changed,” he hissed.  “Things changed _before_ I left for King’s Landing.” 

Her leg twitched.  “Jaime…” 

He smiled at the sound of his name again, not caring if she saw. “I returned to betrayal, Brienne. My brother was left to die while my father nursed his machinations back to life.  And my sister…” 

She tried to pull back her foot, but he would not let her retreat again. Instead, he tugged on it, demanding the tension along her limb be released and she hesitantly slid forward, raising her knee.  Jaime wanted to run his hands along her body so that he could tell how she was seated, if she was hunched in on herself, denying him, or if she was rigid and tense, bracing for the blow. 

Idly, he ran his thumb along the worn leather of her boot. It helped to ground him as sudden flashes of a filthy wine room, dank and decaying, and a hidden alcove, brimming with lust, tumbled across his unseeing eyes.  They burst like the white flashes had, but the pain they unburied was not a physical one.  “Seven hells,” he sighed. He tried to push back the images and embrace the black that was now his world.  “The gods surely enjoy their jokes.  I finally opened my eyes to see the truth and then, they blow out the light.” 

“Is that why you are here?” Brienne asked tentatively.  Her voice was soft and unobtrusive.  It reminded Jaime of just how young she was. 

“No,” Jaime said.  “No, I’m here because you are a fool.” 

There was only silence after that.  It was not heavy or tense, though.  He was used to this kind of quiet from the wench.  So, he waited, keeping himself from panicking in the darkness by mapping out the image of her boot as he rubbed it.  And finally, she spoke.  “I could feel Lady Catelyn was nervous about the Freys.  She had not seemed so before, even when we were fleeing King-King Renly’s camp.  I should have kept my eye on her.  I should have-“ Her voice caught and she lapsed into nothingness again. 

“Don’t,” he interrupted.  “Trust me, it’s no use letting your mistakes bury you.” 

There was little to say after that, though Jaime knew the air between them was hanging with the many things that still needed to be expressed. He wanted to pluck one of them, offer it to her, and start again what they had fled from when they went their separate ways. But floating in the night, holding them each in their place, were the numerous binds of duty and remorse and loss. They offered different burdens to each of them, but trapped them the same, nonetheless.  So, Jaime resigned himself to the simple touch of her ankle. For now. 

“Thank you, Ser,” Brienne murmured.  “If it were not for you, Lady Dacey and I would have been dead.  But…but, you would also not be blind.” 

Jaime sighed, the words spilling out before he could think. “If I had known, I still would have come, Brienne.” _Maybe I am not so blind._  

She shifted nervously.  “We’ll find a way to get your sight back,” she said, determination and confidence settling back into her tone.  Jaime snorted at the familiar stubbornness.  “We’ll seek out a maester.” 

“And what about the girls?” he replied.  “I brought them here so that you could take them home or somewhere safe or wherever you bloody well wish to go.  And I need to return to King’s Landing.” 

“I have not forgotten,” she forlornly grumbled.  “But you will be no use on the road without your sight. And your brother…” 

“Yes. I know.  I can’t save Tyrion without knowing where the danger lies.” He blew out a snorting breath through his nose in frustration. “Fine.  We’ll find the nearest maester and whether or not he cures me, I must head back afterwards.” 

“As you wish, Ser.” 

“You know what I wish, Brienne,” he snapped.  When she could not reply, and Jaime imagined her working her chewed up mouth in an attempt, he saved her from the panic and held out his arms. “Help me up, then.” 

She heaved herself up from the ground with a grunt and then her hands were filling his, their fingers entwining and their palms pressed so close, not even a blade of grass could slide between them.  Jaime braced his feet against the earth before giving her a nod that he was ready. She pulled him up slowly, letting him feel her strength, the way she took his weight smoothly and never budged from her place. 

But as he teetered towards standing fully, he heard her hiss in pain and yank him up too fast to quickly release him.  He stumbled, not completely aware of his balance or the landscape and shot his arms out.  Despite having obviously opened a wound, Brienne was there to catch him, stepping into him and grabbing his shoulders before he fell forward. 

He tried to be gentle when he steadied himself by placing his hands on her arms. He was not sure where she was injured, but the rattle of the gasp that still lingered in the air had sounded damp and stuttered.  _She was near death already when I found her_. The thought made him grip her more firmly as a reminder that she was not dead, though.  Or maybe they had not escaped the Twins and they had come out on the other side together.  That would be some consolation. 

Taking her stillness as acquiescence, Jaime took a tentative step forward until their toes bumped and he easily pulled her chest towards him. He felt her breath surge in plumes across his nose, bursting and curling up his forehead and down his cheeks. It was rapid and inconsistent, following the same skipping pattern as her heart banging against her ribs, one of which may be broken.  There was a possibility, though, that perhaps the hammering that he was feeling was his own heart, since he was having just as much difficulty controlling his breath or swallowing. 

Jaime needed to see her.  He could tell from her tensing muscles that she was reacting to his presence hovering so close to her, but he was not sure that it was positive.   He wanted to look into those deep blue eyes and _know_ , like he had learned to do when he was a prisoner of her king’s.  At this proximity, Jaime could have counted the freckles splotching her nose and splattering her cheeks, seen where her buckteeth had torn at the tender flesh of her bottom lip, and watched her wild and pale eyebrows scrunch up in concentration or confusion. But he could see none of that now. He was simply standing in the darkness while she stood in the night, in his arms but beyond his reach. “Are you taking a good long look at me since you know I can’t see you watching?” he snarled. 

“N-no,” she stuttered and turned her head so quickly that her brittle hair brushed across his nose.  _So, she was staring_.  _At least I can still read some of her._  

“It’s only fair then, that I get my fill as well.” 

There was silence, but Jaime felt her turn back slightly, probably to eye him from her periphery.  Since she asked no questions nor pulled back from his touch, he let the fingertips of his right hand trail up her shoulder, using the taut muscles of her solid form to guide him. He dragged his touch over rough spun linen until it met flesh so hot, he snatched his fingers back, imagining them burnt from the contact. 

Brienne flinched as he jerked away and he had to wrap his other arm around where her waist should have been in order to keep her from skittering out of his grasp and effectively disappearing into the blackness, never to be found. “I don’t think…” 

“Nonsense,” he muttered, beginning again at her shoulder, after a couple of attempts that had him grasping at air.  “You’re just warmer than I remembered.  Or perhaps I’ve become too accustomed to the cold.” 

Bracing himself for the feel of her skin and letting the heat sink into his blood, he moved up the column of her throat and reveled in feeling the hammering of her heart as she swallowed continuously.  She was all smooth skin and sinew, enticing Jaime to press his palm to just below her strong jaw so that he was cupping her pulse point. His fingertips buried in her hair, where he found the strands closest to her scalp to be soft. 

“Do you have freckles here?” he asked, running his hand along her neck. She swallowed again, and Jaime enjoyed the feeling of knowing that, and nodded.  “Strange, I can’t feel them really.” 

“Oh.” 

From his touch and from his memory, Jaime firmed in his mind the image of Brienne’s thick neck, red and blotchy, now with a dusting of freckles that were too light to be raised for him to feel.  He used his thumb to trace her jaw, familiar with the squareness, but taking the time to paint it as well. 

Brienne was breathing hard through her nose by that point and her grip on his shoulders was starting to ache.  She was letting him continue, though.  So, Jaime ran his hand up her throat to tuck it under her large ear.  It felt warmer than the rest of her and he imagined the lobe wide and jutting out from her head, laced with thread thin veins that fueled her blush. From this position, he could caress her soft cheek with his thumb, feel the pale hairs rise as he barely touched her, and skip across fine puckered flesh of scars and shallow freckles. 

But he was too tempted by the warm bursts of air that were now escaping her mouth to linger long.  He knew his lips were twitching into a smile as he released her head and moved his thumb to run over her own.  They were indeed cracked, though he easily drew across them with his touch since they were slick. He was unsure if the wetness he found there was from her nervous licks or blood blooming to the surface between the frayed skin.  He wanted very much to taste it, to know if it was metallic or sweet. 

Instead, though, he moved on, the coward that he was. He traced her wide nose, dipping his fingers in the ridges caused by breakages.  He played with her eyelids and raked her long lashes, trying to picture the right shade of blue that must be washing him in a sapphire haze as she opened her eyes to study him in return.  While he grew frustrated battling his mind to find the perfect azure, he was able to sketch everything else, her hairline, her bushy eyebrows, her high forehead, creased with concern.  She was no prettier with his new sight, still manly, disproportioned, and awkward, but in his worthless arms was a maiden trusting, noble, and surprisingly gentle. He felt like the beast between them. 

He leaned in, wanting to show her who he was now, what he had desired when they had parted, what he still desired, even more, now. 

Brienne pulled away, however.  She dropped her hands from his arms and easily slid out of his embrace since he was too surprised to tighten it around her in time.  They had been like this once before and Jaime was determined not to let her leave again. 

“Brienne,” he called into the night. 

“Is it easier to touch me now that you can’t see how ugly I am?” she barked. Her words were angry but her tone was quiet and vulnerable. 

If she wanted to play distant and blunt, he would easily match her.   She was terrible at it, anyway. “I haven’t forgotten, wench.” 

“And have you forgotten the color of your cloak?” 

_White. Red. Black._ It was mottled and stained now with crimson and blood and dirt, never to be pristine again. But for a blind man, Jaime saw that more clearly than the young maiden could.  “It’s all I have now, isn’t it? Memories. Shall I don the cloak and swing my sword, hoping for an enemy to _walk_ right into me? That’s the only way I could stop an attack.” 

“You are still the Lord Commander,” she argued. 

“And I am still the Kingslayer.  I’m still a Lannister.  What excuse will you have next to walk away?” 

With a shuffle of grass, Jaime heard her take a small step forwards. He remained still, refusing to reach out to her even though he felt she was close enough to take again. The bitter part of him wanted to be the one to move back and leave her teetering in the dark, deprived of his presence. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Jaime,” she murmured. 

His name, only his name, without the titles and curses he usually heard from others, but never from her, deflated the swelling anger that had bloomed at her rejection.  “Brienne,” he sighed, dropping his head. 

“Brienne?” Another voice interrupted, dampening out the blue tinge that had begun to halo the bleakness of Jaime’s vision.  It was a lilting and feminine sound, unlike Brienne’s but raspier than either of the Starks.  _That woman in armor that Brienne was protecting, then. Lady Dacey, was it? A Mormont. Of course the wench would attract a she-bear_. 

Brienne immediately jolted back upon hearing the intruder, but since Jaime was still battling for balance, she had to hastily jump to his side and wrap an arm around his waist.  He was sure he could feel the heat from her blush as she walked them back towards the cabin, but he kept his chin up and grinned widely, hoping he was looking straight at where Lady Dacey had paused. 

“Is-is he alright, Brienne?” she asked.  Though she was cautious, there was no fear in her voice.  In fact, to Jaime’s ears, she sounded quietly accusatory. 

“Yes, but we need to get him to a maester,” Brienne replied shyly. 

“We can’t worry about that now.  We must decide what to do with Lady Sansa and Lady Arya.” 

“We will.  But Ser Jaime needs help so that he may return-“ Brienne stammered. 

“Why would I help the Kingslayer?” Lady Dacey asked, not even slightly apologetic at saying so in front of the man in question. 

Jaime growled threateningly, but he allowed Brienne to silence him with a squeeze to his hip.  “He saved our lives. You know this.” 

Lady Dacey scoffed.  “I also know that his family is the reason our lives were in danger! The Lannisters killed the king! Deny it, _Kingslayer_.” 

“I’ve never denied it,” Jaime said.  “And if I hadn’t found out about it, I wouldn’t have been able to get you out of there. But, My Lady, remember that I wasn’t there to snatch out your bony armored arse.  You were just lucky.” 

“Ser!” Brienne snapped.  She hauled him forcefully forward, huffing through her nostrils like a frenzied warhorse. 

Jaime heard Lady Dacey stomping after them, one foot landing heavily and the other skimming the grass as it dragged behind.  She was grumbling under her breath, but did not raise a protest again. 

“We will find Ser Jaime a maester and while there, we will discuss where we shall take the Stark children.” 

There was nothing but the sound of their footsteps and the soft chirp of a cricket, but Jaime felt Brienne twist and he imagined her companion offering only the smallest nod in affirmation.  He continued to smirk triumphantly but it was strained now. He had little hope that a maester could cure him and he was filled with a deep dread about the thought of returning to King’s Landing.  Without the wench. 

But the sounds of commotion and conversation forced all of his distracting worries from his head as he was compelled to try to piece together the scene that was before him.  Brienne had opened the door to the cabin, letting in a cacophony of voices, clanging, and the drag of wooden legs upon the planks of the floor. 

However, as she steered him inside, tapping his thigh so that he knew to step up to the threshold, the noises died down.  There was still murmuring, hushed and pitying, but Jaime refused to let his instincts cause him to turn towards the sound.  He would have been whipping his head back and forth anyway as the voices flitted about the cabin like a trapped bird, hopping and flapping in the recesses and corners of the room, searching for a quiet escape. 

“My apologies for interrupting your conversation about _me_ ,” Jaime huffed. 

“You took long enough moping outside, Kingslayer”, Clegane spat back as Brienne guided Jaime to sit on his pallet.  He ignored her gentle push on his shoulder, trying to get him to lie down. 

“Ser Lyle was right, Jaime,” Addam said.  “We can’t stay here.” 

“We are going to find a maester,” Brienne responded quickly. She was quiet and unsure, making Jaime wonder if anyone had actually heard her. 

“I know of one,” came the voice of the old woman who lived in the cabin. There was some shuffling and hissing, but she silenced what must have been the protests of her worried husband and continued.  “He helped my boy right after the accident.  Only a few day’s ride north of here, I’d reckon.” 

“North?” Ryn cried.  “No. We are going south, back to King’s Landing.” 

“Some of us are not,” Ser Bonifer piped up, his deep, old voice booming, though he kept it level and low.  “I will take the Stark girls-“ 

Jaime shook his head and pulled himself to the edge of the cot to grip the sides until he felt his knuckles would burst open.  “You’ll do no such thing.  They are staying with Brienne.” 

“I’m also sworn to the Starks,” Lady Dacey said.  “We will _both_ ensure their safety.” 

“And so they will go with us to the maester,” Brienne agreed. She paused.  “Perhaps he can do them some good as well.” 

The old woman clucked disapprovingly.  “What those girls need is family.” 

“And family we will give them,” Brienne replied.  “Somehow.” 

“Well, you all enjoy your executions,” Ser Jon grunted.  “Sorry, Jaime, but I’m heading back before this place becomes overrun.” 

“Same,” Ryn said. 

The Strongboar sighed.  “There’s a cup of ale and a plump whore waiting for me at the city.” 

“But…” Brienne protested.  “But what about Ser Jaime? He-he cannot re-return on his…own.” She stumbled over the words, much like Jaime did when he considered the option, and he wondered if it was for the same reasons that he could not dwell on the idea. 

“Peck and I will go with you, My Lady,” Addam replied. “We will see what the maester says and…reevaluate.” _Reevaluate._ It sounded like Addam was already trying to devise ways to strap Jaime to the saddle of his horse and smuggle him into the keep without anyone noticing his blindness. And there was little doubt in his mind that he would still be blind when he returned.  “Clegane?” 

“You all bloody well know I’m not going back to that buggering city,” the Hound growled.  “I should just find a ship at White Harbor and try my luck on a whole other fucking land.” There was a pause that no one filled, so Jaime assumed that the broad and brooding man was working towards saying something else.  And few would want to interrupt him.  When he did speak again, it was softer.  At least, it was less snarling and harsh. “But.  I think I’ll make sure the little bird gets back to her frigid cage.” 

That surprised Jaime, but he let it go.  Clegane may slit Brienne’s throat in her sleep, but if he could be trusted, he would be an asset on the trip north, something that Jaime would not be. 

“Well, then, won’t this be pleasant,” Jaime grumbled, thinking of all of the others that would be keeping distance between him and the wench. “Quite the mummer’s show we will look.” 

“You’ll just have to use your imagination, Kingslayer,” Clegane barked with a laugh. 

Jaime groaned, but Brienne settled herself on the cot beside him. She was careful not to touch him like she had so freely done when they were alone.  He felt her, though, knew she was near, and that she exuded hope and determination. He would go to the maester for her, though he could not share her faith in some sort of cure.  Still, there was a small flame burning in his gut at the confidence she claimed for him and as she sat there, firm and strong, it ignited.


	18. The Maester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has been so supportive and open to the idea of this story!
> 
> The guidance and the vision of this was due largely to Coraleeveritas. She really has not only been instrumental in the writing but also in the plot. I appreciate her giving me her beautiful and lovely imagination and skills to help make this better.
> 
> And I must bow to Sandwichesyumyum for not only taking the time to read these chapters and providing her invaluable insight but for also guessing many many chapters ago the plot twist at the end of this chapter. You sly fox!

Outside of the cabin, the party went their separate ways.  The small group of men heading towards King’s Landing quickly melted into the bleak night, the sound of horses’ hooves muffled by the dewy grass, all signs that they had ever been present swallowed in a low, broken fog that rolled close to the earth.  Their larger band took longer to prepare, not only for their size but for their burdens.  Lady Sansa was to ride with Ser Bonifer, though Brienne was not convinced that she could trust the aged Lannister knight, while Lady Arya, still bound and gagged, unfortunately, would sit with Lady Dacey.  It worried Brienne that Jaime gave little protest to having to ride with her, but he refused Ser Addam’s offer and ignored Clegane’s cruel japes. 

While the others were distracted with saddling their mounts and taking the provisions that the family of the cabin offered, Brienne guided Jaime to their horse. She tried to keep her touch light, merely pinching his elbow with her fingers, but he snaked his arm around so that he could grasp her shoulder and she instinctively cradled his limb. Even though he could not see her, he unnerved her with the heat rising from behind cool emerald eyes and how he still seemed to be able to wriggle under her armor and skin, settling back into his place there. 

She was careful not to abuse her ability to watch him since he could not watch her in return.  But it was odd to see his gaze vague and searching, his lips pulled into a frown of concentration, his head twitching as he caught every sound with his ears. She missed the sharpness of his stare, the way he could cut through her, simply piercing her with a look. Now, at times, he appeared lost and fumbling, with a regard that was soft and wide instead.  It would have frightened her if she had not been sneaking enough glances to also find the moments where a sound or a touch would allow him to focus and he would narrow his eyes, like a hawk finding a mouse in a field leagues below it.  Those times made her keep looking back at him, despite the concern that he would know what she was doing. 

And what if he caught her again? Would he run his hands over her skin as he had the previous night? Capture her and _see_ her, not missing a blemish or skipping over any of her twisted or broken features? His touch felt just as shrewd and knowing as his eyes.  Or how his eyes used to be, at least.  

_How they could be again_ , she reminded herself. 

“I know what you’re doing.” Jaime’s voice gently shook her out of her circling thoughts and she realized she was simply standing in place, holding the reins. She looked down at them before she braved a quick glance back.  He was facing the saddle, not even trying to find her in the darkness. Though his eyes were unfocused, he had a subtle, assertive smile tugging at his lips. 

“I wasn’t looking at you,” she muttered.  It was the truth after all. 

“I know.  You were lost in thought,” he replied.  “Stop it. We’re both going to regret it if I try to get on this beast by myself.” 

As Brienne secured the reins around a low branch, she tried to concentrate on her task.  But it was difficult when she had to lead Jaime by the shoulders and take his wrists so that he could rest his hands on the saddle.  He was quiet while she continued on around him, grasping his booted calf and guiding it to the stirrup.  She should have been thankful for the silence, knowing it could have been filled with heated remarks, blazing green gazes, and warm breathy chuckles, things she had missed and feared since he had returned home.  However, his reticence only caused her to dwell deeper.  As Jaime tried to launch himself up, she barely caught their horse from dancing away too far when it sensed a hesitant rider trying to take charge. 

When he was settled, Brienne tapped him to move back so that she could mount in front of him.  That, at least, provoked some grumbling and a stubborn set to his stubbled jaw, but, after his mutterings faded into acceptance, he slid towards the horse’s flank. It was difficult fitting herself in between the pommel and Jaime’s thighs.  They jostled one another and she caught a frown as Jaime tried to keep himself balanced without being able to see what Brienne was doing. Still, she was startled when he reached out and grounded himself by holding her to him.  She was completely armored, so she could not feel when he touched her breastplate, but she heard his sweating fingers slide down the metal while he groped around until they dug into the gap above her pelvis, between her placard and fauld. 

He did not speak.  And she tried not to think about how close he was.  How alive he felt.  But how he was still not as near and frenzied he had been the night before. 

“I’m going to spur the horse, now,” Brienne said to the piece of night lurking between the animal’s ears. 

Jaime huffed, sending his breath through her hair and escaping to wash down her neck.  “Let’s get on with it then.” 

Gently nudging the beast forward, she let it take an easy pace as it picked its way through the edge of the forest in the murky evening. As soon as it began moving beneath their saddle, Jaime readjusted, encasing her more firmly between his legs and sinking his grip into her mail and leather.  It burrowed into her flesh like blunt nails and she could feel the burn from his body seeping through the layers of metal and fabric. 

The others were moving as well, misty shadows in a world of colder and harsher shades.  They were to ride into the night, using the cloak of darkness to allow them to move through lands probably now teeming with Freys and Boltons, hoping to pick up any last morsels left behind by the devastated lupine ranks, like carrion edging the feast. 

During the day, they would remain still and hidden, though Brienne had not felt comfortable with the prospect of being stationary for so long. They needed to get away from the reaching grasp of the Twins and quickly find the maester that could help Jaime and allow the rest to tend to their wounds.  But they were a large party of unknown allegiance and in the sunlight, even gray and shrouded behind rain as it would be, they would be easy targets for a hunt. 

Her worries were shattered by the sound of hooves drawing near. Jaime turned to the noise, as did she, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him searching without sight, sniffing the air and raising his chin like a predator tasting a promising scent on the breeze. 

“Brienne.” Jaime murmured so low and quiet she would have thought his voice was the hum of a toad, if he had not spoken right into her ear. 

She knew he was asking for her to identify the sound, but he would never openly inquire.  “Friends,” she told him. 

Thankfully, it was simply Ser Bonifer and Lady Dacey making their own paths through the forest on their mounts.  Brienne caught the flash of auburn, even in the dark, as Lady Sansa shifted under her hood.  She was before Ser Bonifer in the saddle and had to peak over thick armor to cast a glance at her sister on the other horse.  Brienne could not make out her expression recessed in the cloak, but she saw the glint of light blue eyes in the soft moonlight.  For a moment, Lady Catelyn was before her, alive and accusing, and she turned away before the specter could claw down the wall that she had erected around the memory of earlier that night. 

Finding Lady Dacey staring at Jaime’s hands on Brienne’s waist, she switched her gaze to the surviving Stark loyalist.  When she sensed Brienne’s stare, she met her eyes, but her grim expression did not change.  They regarded one another, causing Brienne to feel a large expanse opening up between them, filled with the carnage and chaos and loss that they had shared, the fear and acceptance of death that they had both felt before Jaime had appeared in the chaos. But he was also widening that distance separating them, until Brienne could not know what Lady Dacey was thinking. 

She must be reflecting on what she had come across outside of the cabin, though Brienne wondered if it looked as scandalous as it had felt, being locked in the Kingslayer’s arms and barely escaping the cage of heat and relief at being with him again.  She must want answers but Brienne did not have them.  She could not even fathom the questions to ask.  And so, she simply looked back. 

Arya, who was only a bundle of fury and fight in front of Lady Dacey, squirmed suddenly, causing the she-bear to turn to her and place her free hand on the girl’s shoulder while murmuring into her ear.  She settled, but not without a jerk and a muffled curse. 

The tension had passed with her interruption, though, and Lady Dacey merely nodded at Brienne before keeping on the hooves of Ser Bonifer’s mount. She was clearly maintaining an eye on the man who rode with the heir to the North. 

“I don’t feel confident in trusting Ser Bonifer with the Starks,” Brienne found herself confessing out loud. 

“At least you don’t have to worry about him being improper with either of them,” Jaime dismissed.  “That man takes his gods to bed rather than a warm woman.” 

“There are other ways to harm a girl than with touch,” she sighed, hoping he did not hear.  Though the grip on her sides loosened for a heartbeat, she felt him squeeze her more firmly than before.  And then his breath was at her ear again, where it stayed while they rode in silence. 

Her world was the barely illuminated night and its sounds, the crickets and the rustling of leaves, the steady exhales of the horse and the air blowing out of Jaime’s nose.  It reminded her of the silence after leaving the Twins, of the ride with an unconscious Jaime slung over her pommel.  At least he was alive and awake for this part of the journey, though she felt a sickening, stirring dread at the thought of what had been taken away from him because he had attempted to save her.  Some of his men had died, men not even sworn to her cause.  And the rest were injured and in danger, either from moving farther North and abandoning their liege lord or having to traverse back to known allies through a frenzy of activity that was like a hive falling from its tree and bursting on the earth. 

All of this had been for Brienne.  And what had she done to deserve another chance at life? She should never have left Catelyn, not even for a moment.  She should have listened to the unease humming in the air.  She should have tried to find some way to sneak out the king and his mother at the first sign of danger.  She should have. 

But what she had done was trust.  She had assumed that guest right was as strong as steel and as pure as blood. But that steel had been drawn and blood had been spilt.  And she had been consumed by the death that she had witnessed, by those that she had not seen but heard.  She had lost her focus. She had lost herself. She had not even the drive of every living creature to fight for survival.  What was left after failing once more? 

“You’re doing it again,” Jaime rumbled. 

She did not even try to hide her thoughts.  “There’s so much to regret,” she sighed. 

“If you let it take you, Brienne, what will happen to those girls?” 

“What makes you think that I can serve them any better than I did Lady Catelyn or King Renly?” Brienne huffed.  She hunched over in the saddle, feeling a weight greater than her armor pushing her down. 

Jaime followed her as she moved up.  “Tell me who would be better.” When she did not reply, he continued. “You could not protect anyone against a shadow or a betrayal.” 

“ _You_ protected _me_.” It was the truth, but Brienne could not understand why the words were almost too heavy to speak. 

“Yes, Brienne,” Jaime replied with a tone that was distant and indiscernible. “I protected you.” 

They spent the small remainder of the night in silence.  Brienne was determined on keeping the others in her periphery and making sure that their horse did not stumble in the dark. The simple tasks gave her enough motivation not to slide back into her memories and mourning again. 

While she kept her mind occupied on the mundane things, Jaime was lost to the darkness and the pain in his head.  Occasionally, he would grip her so harshly her mail would shift and the links would catch her tunic and her flesh.  The tension was accompanied by a sharp hiss and the wet flap of Jaime’s tongue as it flailed in his slackened mouth.  The agonizing outbursts had lessened since he had awakened, but the severity and suddenness shoved another worry forward to niggle at her thoughts as they moved on. 

When a soft orange glow began to light up the earth, igniting roots and leaves and grass, catching low and slowly moving up, Ser Addam joined her. “There is a rivulet ahead. We can camp near there for the day as I’m sure the ladies would like to bathe.” Nodding to her, he shifted in his saddle, slightly uncomfortable and hesitant.  He must have had little experience dealing with fragile young maidens, even less with those that had recently had their family and bannermen murdered, all hope of home burning up and bleeding out.  Brienne had just as much knowledge about how to console anyone, let alone girls, but at least Ser Addam was handsome, with a pleasant smile and knowing eyes.  Lady or no, Brienne was not a sight that would bring comfort. 

The prospect of washing away the blood that still coated her, burrowing under her skin, was tempting enough for her to agree and follow Ser Addam deeper into the woods.  They wound through thick brush until they all but burst upon the rest of the party gathered in a clearing.  It would be difficult for others passing through the area to find them in such a spot and Brienne was satisfied with their temporary cover. 

She dismounted, having to swing her foot over the horse’s head, and took a firm grip on the reins before she tapped Jaime’s calf to signal he could get down.  He did so by leaning low on their mount’s neck and dragging his leg back and over the flank, keeping contact with his toe so that he knew how far to go, then sliding off, dangling out his foot until it made contact with the earth. 

When he was safely standing on solid ground, there was a soft smile on his lips, crinkling the corners of his emerald eyes.  Reaching out, he patted the beast before Brienne led it away to tie up with the rest.  She felt guilty being glad that he could not see how she watched him curiously, feeling her own mouth twitch at his re-building pride.  He was different than the frenzied, fevered man from the night before. 

She turned back to find Ser Addam leading Jaime away to where the men were removing supplies from their saddle bags, Peck and Ser Bonifer disappearing into the bushes to begin their part of the watch.  Though Brienne was hesitant about having two Lannister men be the first form of protection for the Stark heirs, she was even more unsure about an old man and a boy keeping awake and alert after the nightmare they had lived through.  She was starting to feel the pull of sleep tugging at her as well, but she feared what her dreams would bring her more than she needed the rest. 

Lady Dacey approached her as she continued to watch where the two had disturbed the bushes, limping lightly and grasping her hip.  Her dark hair was matted to her scalp, caked with sweat and dirt and blood.  Her clothes were tattered and soiled.  She looked desperate to clean herself and she smiled at Brienne as she took in her own ruined state. 

“Will you try to find some clean clothes and soap?” she asked. “I’ll bring the girls to the stream, but I’ll need your help with Lady Arya.  She is still untrusting of everyone, even her sister.” 

Brienne did not blame her.  “I’ll be there momentarily, my Lady.” 

“Gods, Brienne, call me Dacey,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. Even as she hobbled away, there was a sway of her hip, emphasized by the sword tipped delicately upon it. 

The remaining men, Ser Addam, the other young squire, Tyrek, and Clegane, also watched her as she gathered the Stark girls and pushed through the low branches of the forest.  Only Jaime did not look and Brienne wondered if he would have if he could. And what would have stopped him if he would not.  He had mentioned something about his sister, as he always had in King Renly’s camp, but this time, it had been puffed out with vitriol and a pain that had edged beneath the headaches. 

Pushing down the rising of her stomach, Brienne rifled through their belongings to find warm traveling clothes for the four of them, men’s garments for her and Lady Dacey and boy’s breeches and jerkins for the Starks. Thankfully, the old woman of the cabin had also parted with a small cake of soap, unscented and thick. 

“We shall sort out of the food and eat when you return,” Ser Addam informed her from where he was sitting beside Jaime and cutting up a withered apple. 

“I’ll take the next watch,” Brienne said. 

Ser Addam nodded, but Jaime frowned.  “You should rest, wench.” 

“We all need sleep, ser.  I will take mine later.” With that, she rose with her bundles and stomped through the camp, crashing through the trees. 

The small finger of the river that had slithered out from the main, roaring channel, was just enough to kneel in and have water flow about the waist. It was not even powerful enough to carve a path through the terrain.  Instead it ran around trees and rocks, curling and twisting under the canopy of forest. Brienne would have walked right into it before she had noticed it and was relieved to find that its presence would not attract others searching for clean water. 

As she tried to gentle her pace, she quietly came across Lady Dacey and the girls, already in their small clothes, wet from head to toe, busily trying to wash their garments while they dried themselves on a scattering of rocks. Lady Arya had been untied, but Lady Dacey was keeping a keen eye on her as she helped the older sister scrub blood from a tunic. 

“How can you be so trusting of these people?” Lady Arya was grumbling to Lady Dacey as she picked at a scab on her knee.   “The Hound kidnapped me and tried to _sell_ me! And the _Kingslayer_ is over there!” 

“Yes, my Lady,” Lady Dacey replied evenly.  “I would slit every one of their throats for ever bending the knee to the Lannisters, let alone _being_ one. But they saved our lives.” 

Lady Arya snorted.  “They just want us to go back to King’s Landing and be prisoners _there_.” 

“No,” Lady Sansa spoke up.  Brienne was not surprised to find her voice sonorous and sweet, like the strings of a harp running through deft fingers.  “Ser Jaime took me away from….that place.” 

“And came to the Twins to save Brienne,” Lady Dacey murmured, the thought spilling out, though she clearly had meant to contain it.  “Betrayed by allies and rescued by enemies. I don’t know what to make of the realm anymore.” 

“So what if he tried to help that woman?” Lady Arya said.  “He didn’t try to save mo-mother or, or…Robb.” She turned away, trying to hide her face behind her short brown hair. 

Lady Sansa placed a delicate, trembling hand on her sister’s shoulder. But the touch did nothing to relax the taut muscles that were ready to spring and flee.  Brienne marveled at their strength, that they were even capable of moving and speaking at all under the weight of their loss, surrounded by adversaries, and with no home to return to.  The Starks were survivors, she had learned. 

Lady Dacey was replying to Lady Arya, drawing Brienne out of her study of the sisters.  “No. The Kingslayer saved his…friend. A friend we _can_ trust.” 

“Why?” Arya snapped. 

“Because your mother trusted her,” Lady Dacey said as she looked out at the flowing stream.  “Because she is a true knight.” 

Brienne shifted uneasily, grasping her bundle closer to ensure that nothing dropped and gave her away for spying, 

Arya huffed.  “Some knight she was.” 

“I’m just as much at fault for not protecting Lady Catelyn and King Ro-Robb,” Lady Dacey replied, only faintly tripping over his name.  Brienne understood the hesitation, since she still had trouble speaking of King Renly. 

Lady Sansa spoke up. “Lady Dacey is right, Arya.  She and Lady Brienne are all we have left. And if they advise us to take these men under the faith of the Stark banner, then we shall.” 

“But, the _Hound_ ,” Arya argued, sounding petulant. 

Lady Sansa drew her other hand to her neck, seeming to feel for something along the pale column.  “He was not the cruelest of the Lannister men.  He may have taken me away.” 

Brienne shared Lady Dacey’s frown at that and promised herself to keep an eye on Clegane when he was around the heir to the North. Perhaps Lady Arya would prove helpful in that as well, as she was staring at her sister like she had sprung a tail. 

Purposely stepping on a twig and making noise pushing through a bush, Brienne finally joined them at the rivulet.  They looked up at her as she approached, Lady Sansa peering behind Lady Dacey with an expression of curiosity and a slight crinkle of her straight nose and Lady Arya openly looking hostile, but it was subdued and dampened by her interest in the sword hanging at Brienne’s side. 

“Lady Brienne,” Lady Sansa politely greeted her.  “I would like to thank you for your loyalty to House Stark.” 

Brienne stared at the sweet maiden, with her wet hair already twisting into curls that turned to bronze in the soft sunlight and her skin luminescent and pure. Her blue eyes were innocently trusting, but the light had sharpened and waned, honed and beaten by what this child had experienced.  With a few more brutal blows, she would become her mother, fierce and beautiful. 

The sight of her, legs in the water and in nothing but a shift, sent Brienne to her knees.  She dropped her bundle and bowed her head.  “I beg your forgiveness, my Lady.  I should have died with Lady Catelyn.” 

“Lady Dacey says that you fought valiantly,” Lady Sansa said. “But mayhaps you would have died anyway, had it not been for the Kin-Ser Jaime.  He took me away as well.” Her forehead creased, but otherwise her face remained as unreadable as porcelain.  Offering no other words, she seemed lost and puzzled by what it all meant. 

Arya snorted.  “Can you teach me how to use a sword?” 

“Only if you swear not to use it on any of those that are escorting you to the North,” Brienne replied. 

That earned her a mischievous grin from the girl, one that looked more like a baring of teeth than a smile.  “Maybe.” 

With the tension settling for now, Brienne washed herself, careful to avoid the angry cuts and bruises that mottled her skin, while the others used the soap on their bodies and clothes.  Lady Sansa even offered to clean Brienne’s own tunic, but she made a miserable attempt to politely decline.  The thought of the girl scrubbing away blood and grime from the massacre at the Twins was unsettling enough for Brienne to furiously scour at her own worn garments herself. 

They dressed in the dry clothes Brienne had gathered and went back to the rest of the party.  She exchanged a nervous glance with Lady Dacey about letting Arya remain unbound. She had tried to bite her sister’s hand when Lady Sansa reached out while she had been begging her to be allowed to try and plait her hair, but she had calmed when Lady Dacey had threatened to cut off her little finger, since she could still survive without it. 

The girls seemed more relaxed after being able to bathe and Brienne felt her own shoulders lift, not having to carry around the stink of the previous evening anymore.  When they joined the men, the Starks were willing to sit with the others, though Lady Dacey and Brienne were between them. 

As soon as Brienne took a position on a log next to Jaime, he turned in her direction.  “You don’t smell like horse and sweat anymore,” he remarked. 

“You still do,” she grumbled back.  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lady Dacey watching their interaction with barely contained curiosity, while she was aware of the grin blooming on Jaime’s lips. 

He clapped his hands on his knees and stood, announcing to the air, “The lady has demanded that I bathe.” 

Ser Addam chuckled as Brienne blushed and Lady Sansa gasped. He rose as well and took Jaime’s elbow. “She’s not the only one making such a request.” 

But when Ser Addam, Jaime, Clegane, and Tyrek, returned from the stream, Jaime was no longer smiling, though the Hound and Ser Addam were. He shrugged off Ser Addam’s hand when they stopped, forcing Brienne to guide him down to the log beside her. 

“That’s the last time I will receive help from them,” he groused. 

She chose not to ask what had occurred during their wash, but she imagined that the men were not so respectful and proper to the Lord Commander when he was blind and helpless.  Yet he did not seem so harmless, sitting next to her with his damp hair looking like burnished gold and his skin pink and tender beneath his tan and the hairs wrapping his veined forearms and dotting his twitching jaw.  So, instead, she let him simmer in his own wounded vanity, while the others divided out the food, and tried not to stare at his coiled muscles. 

When Clegane left to give the portions to the scouts, Brienne handed Jaime a single slice of apple.  She placed it in his palm and ate her own while she watched him chew it. When he was done, he settled his open hand in his lap again and she gave him another piece.  They did this with the chunks of bread and then the string of dried meat. Occasionally, she would give him the skin of water instead and it was not until they had almost completed their meal that she realized they had been sharing from the same one. If Jaime knew, he said nothing, though she had noticed him taste his lips after swallowing. 

He had remained silent as they ate, but when her fingers would brush his hand when she placed something in it, the corner of his mouth would convulse while she fought the shivers of their now familiar touch resonate under her skin. And he kept his head cocked towards her, giving her the feeling that his distant and unseeing emerald eyes were regarding her in a way they never had when they had been filled with sight.

As they finished, Brienne made ready to take her turn on watch. She glanced at Jaime to see him huddle in against the log they had sat on, making himself small and hidden. The others settled nearby, but they were scattered in the small clearing, feeling safe in their world of light while Jaime stared into nothingness and Brienne did not know if he had fallen asleep or was still awake and listening to the sounds that were now his entire existence. 

The image of him followed her as she paced away from the camp and gazed out over a morning haze that brightened the shadows of the forest. She patrolled and chewed at her lip, thinking how Jaime would chastise her for further marring her ugly face. At least, he would have if he could see her do it. 

After only a short time, trapped in the currents of her musings, letting herself float out to sea, she was surprised to find Clegane approach to take her watch so that she could try to sleep for a few hours.  But as she walked back to the break in the underbrush, Brienne paused.  She looked around her surroundings again, only seeing the Hound with his back to her, another towering tree sprouting from the cold earth.  With some hesitance, she faced the camp and then closed her eyes. 

And the sounds of the forest rushed in.  The faint chirp of a sparrow lingered over the breeze rustling the leaves. If she strained her ears, she could just make out the gurgle of the stream as it rolled and skipped over pebbles and branches.  But though she knew Clegane was behind her, she could not discern any sound that warned her of his presence.  It was maddening, knowing that she could not hear everything, even as much as she struggled to glean any sign of another person between the leaves.  

Leaving her focus on the noises, she took a tentative step forward, only to land on a stone that twisted her footing and jolted her to the side. She managed to steady herself, but, in the process, she had turned away from the camp.  Not wanting to open her eyes, since Jaime could not have done so, she attempted to correct for the adjustment.  When she walked again, she slid her boots along the dirt, which kept her from tripping, but raised a noise that was too loud and clumsy in her ears.  Grunting in frustration, she continued on, struggling to simply skim the ground and dampen the sound of her heavy steps.  

She stumbled into bushes and, at one point, her foot became caught in a root. Her hair was snagged in branches and she even managed to walk through a spider’s web.  At that, she opened her eyes, feeling around her face and scalp, hoping that she had not disturbed the creature, which would have enough trouble recreating what she had destroyed in a heartbeat.

Realizing that she had only lasted a few moments without her sight, Brienne sighed and looked around to try to find the camp.  She had stepped off her intended path enough that, should she make it as far as the clearing, she would have walked right past it. With a huff, she gave up, turning and heading straight for the clearing. 

Lady Dacey was quick to wake, for her time taking watch with the Hound, when a hand was placed gently on her shoulder.  Brienne made sure that the Stark girls were still sleeping, Lady Sansa peacefully on her side beneath a cloak and Lady Arya by her feet, curled up and foot twitching like a pup.  Then, she crept towards where Jaime slept against the log.  She remained low and quiet, careful not to wake him with a sudden noise that he would be more sensitive to. 

Settling close enough that their knees could touch, Brienne watched him sleep. His eyes had finally closed and he was breathing steadily and deeply through his nose, which made a slight whistling as his exhales escaped through nostrils clogged with hair and dirt kicked up from their travels.  But he had washed the dust and grime from his face, leaving it clean enough for Brienne to see the cuts and welts that marred his forehead and swelled his cheek. His jaw would clench and his pale eyelashes would flutter if he moved or breathed in too quickly, ribs and lungs catching on wounds beneath his tunic and jerkin, which she had noticed in the moonlight when he had stalked from the cabin the night before, bare chested. 

Despite her gaze, which she felt was becoming too familiar and intense, though she could not stop herself from looking, Jaime continued to doze. They lay together in a clearing, surrounded by those he had saved and those he had risked.  And Brienne wondered if he would try to kiss her again. 

Suddenly, Jaime snorted and stretched.  Perhaps he had felt her proximity and it had given him some comfort but he uncurled from his ball and laid out, feet splayed apart and one arm draped across his stomach, where the veins below his elbow twitched and his muscles squeezed as he opened and closed his fist. 

Brienne remained motionless, too frightened to move away in case he opened his eyes to find her so close.  And too foolish to realize he would still not know she was there if he did. She started when Jaime reached out with his other hand, dragging his fingers across the ground between them, until the tips met her arm.  Rolling towards her slightly, he was able to get a firmer grasp and gently encircled what he had found, burning it and owning what was now trapped beneath his skin. 

It was clear that he was still asleep, perhaps never knowing what he had done. He was probably thinking of his sister. So, Brienne tried to capture some rest as well.  But when she closed her eyes, her mind was still filled with the image of his thick fingers claiming her just below her wrist, tightening and loosening as he dreamed.   

Despite her racing and panicked mind, at some point, sleep had slithered up her limbs and hid behind her eyes, softly wrapping her up and pulling her down into quiet depths when her focus had drifted.  She did not dream, nor did she move, snatching at the moment of rest as best as she could. 

But soon a large, warm grip was jostling her arm.  She instinctively awoke immediately, though she found herself hesitant to open her eyes.  When she did not respond quickly enough, his hold on her intensified until she was being rocked back and forth on her side with an impatient force. 

“Wench,” Jaime whispered. 

Brienne peeked out through her lashes, feeling heat and guilt rise to her neck and thicken her tongue.  Jaime had lifted his head slightly and was leaning forward, his gaze soft and bleary. She felt childish for hiding from a blind man behind her eyelids and unkind for not moving as soon as he tried to rouse her. 

“I know you’re awake,” he said evenly.  “I need you to take me to the bushes.” 

Concerned about the sound of her rasping voice in the quiet clearing, Brienne tried to gently clear her throat.  “Um…w-why?” 

“Why? Why would you need to go to the bushes, wench?” Jaime replied. 

Brienne frowned, considering. 

It was strange watching Jaime still manage to roll his eyes and stare up to the skies as he vented his exasperation.  “Seven hells,” he grumbled.  “I have to take a _piss_.” 

“Oh,” Brienne sighed.  “ _Oh_.” She sat up quickly and patted Jaime’s shoulders so that he could try to stand as well.  Whatever Ser Addam and Clegane had said or done at the river must have ruined any sliver of trust that Jaime had in them to help, if he was asking her to help him in this matter.  Brienne also supposed he cared less of what she thought of him than his fellow knight and the infamous Hound. 

The others were thankfully still asleep.  Lady Dacey and Clegane had returned and Tyrek and Ser Addam were gone. So, Brienne led Jaime into the small stretch of undergrowth between their clearing and the stream. The earth was littered with debris, as it had been in the woods where Brienne had shut her eyes and tried to live in Jaime’s new world.  She watched him slide his feet like she had done, but with her guidance, he was able to move quicker and without much faltering. 

“We do well together,” Jaime grinned with his eyes cast down, as if he could see where his boots were landing. 

Brienne made no reply.  She was at his side, his arm in the crook of hers so that his other hand could reach out and feel for obstacles before him.  Somehow, he had managed to capture her clammy fingers and he held them gently, just how Brienne imagined a brave knight escorting his pretty maiden would. But he could not see how they looked, walking slowly through the serene forest, leaning in towards one another. And he could not see that he was not clutching onto a simpering lady. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, softly enough that Brienne thought his words were the sound of the leaves rubbing together in the breeze. 

Hiding her struggle to respond, she stopped to indicate that the spot in front of them would be satisfactory for Jaime’s needs.  She panicked for a moment, thinking that he would need assistance unlacing his breeches, but his fingers found the strings easily enough and he confidently began tugging them loose.   

There was no one around to see her falter from leaving as soon as his hand moved to his waist.  Brienne could not look away from his deft fingers pulling and loosening his breeches, occasionally rubbing against his tunic and exposing the planes of pelvis beneath. But the sudden drop of his trousers jolted Brienne back to herself, realizing she was stealing looks at a vulnerable Jaime. 

Before she swiveled away, she caught a flash of his face, her blush flaring at the gleam of his white teeth as he smiled widely.  Though he could not see her, he must have waited for the sound of her retreat and, when she had remained frozen and silent, knew that she had paused. 

Tearing herself away, Brienne moved further off, trying to give herself more privacy than Jaime.  But she remained close enough to hear his soft call when he was ready for her to take him back to camp.  He said nothing as they walked, though he took her hand as before and the turn of his lips returned, filling the silence with a buzzing hum as Brienne’s blood rushed to her face. 

He did not let go even when they returned to the clearing where the others were still sleeping.  So, Brienne picked their way through the slumbering forms, back to the log, and helped Jaime to sit on the ground, where he then laid out, his back to the bark, facing her. She could have turned away from him, but instead, she positioned herself on her back, keeping him in her periphery, her arm close so that he could find it again, should he have need of her. But he quickly fell asleep with his arms tucked against his chest and Brienne slowly dozed as well, feeling cold and restless without the warmth from his now constant touch. 

When she awoke, she began a routine that would continue for the days it took the party to make their way to the maester’s home.  Brienne had meals with Jaime and walked away from the camp with him when he needed to relieve himself.  She held the horse so that he could mount and slide off and she placed a hand on his shoulder when he was wracked with pain.  After watching him scratch at his cheeks and neck, she imagined that soon she would have to try to shave him as well, for his beard was becoming longer, more gray than gold creeping out of his skin. 

Though his japes were light and his touch was proper enough, Brienne was constantly simmering beneath her flesh.  Every contact with skin or fabric boiled her blood.  Every smirk and leer and twitching smile cast out into the air between them she picked up and buried underneath her armor. He never tried to invade her space more than his blindness required.  And yet, Brienne slept at night smelling of him and opened her eyes to search him out laying beside her.  He had lunged at her the first night and she had skittered, but now he was circling her, waiting for her to come to him.  And she did not know what to do. 

The others said nothing about this, though Lady Dacey and Ser Addam’s glances lessened.  The monotony of forest and starless nights settled them each into their own thoughts and nightmares. Even Lady Arya had stopped struggling and rode with Lady Dacey quietly, helping to pass out food in the mornings and packing the saddlebags at dusk.  All the while, though, her stormy eyes had chilled to a thick fog, unseeing and uncaring.  It was disconcerting, especially when Lady Sansa’s soft songs and tender caresses could not rouse her sister from her retreat inside herself.  Brienne hoped that once they had agreed upon a destination, perhaps a purpose would ignite what little dry kindling was left inside the young wolf’s heart. At times, it was the only thing keeping Brienne from putting one foot in front of the other. 

So, they continued on as a group, yet all of them alone.  They did not come across any others, but occasionally when they camped for the day, they would hear voices shouting or horses running. At night, there was only silence, but Brienne thought she heard a babe crying in the distance once.   She should have been grateful and relieved for the peace, but she felt a disturbance in her bones. The silence was not a respite, but a warning. There were still threats to come. 

They were waiting for it, haunting the days and roaming the nights, aimless though they had a destination, and futureless, though they knew their paths. They could wander like this for the remainder of their lives, keeping together and hiding from it all. But each of them they had different roads to traverse and soon the world would call on them and pull them apart. They were simply avoiding the inevitable. 

It was six days after leaving the cottage that they spotted smoke curling up through the trees.  The old lady had described the maester’s home as a stone construction that had been erected by the villagers that lived along the forest to the north of the Twins. She had proudly boasted of the grandeur of the offering her people had gifted to the man educated by the Citadel. Instead, the party found a dilapidated hut that may have once been made of cobbles, but was now held together mostly by wood and mud, with a roof that had been poorly thatched with straw and bark. 

“This is where a _maester_ lives?” Peck innocently asked. 

Jaime groaned behind Brienne in the saddle.  “Please tell me it’s not a tent.” 

“It’s not a tent,” Brienne said, though she could not offer much more comfort besides that. 

There was a raised log set off to the side for them to tie their horses and, by the time they had all dismounted, the door of the hut had opened and its inhabitant was peeking out.  Brienne was surprised at first to find that the man was younger than she had expected, perhaps only a handful of years older than Ser Jaime and Ser Addam. But while they were still lean and alert, he was swelling in his middle, balding on his top, and slow all around. His brown, watery eyes matched the russet robes he wore and the tarnished, unfinished chain that only fell to his chest and was finished off with a piece of rope. 

_An acolyte. We came all this way in the hope that a maester could cure Jaime.  And now it rests in the hands of an acolyte._  

Ser Addam looked at her with a frown.  But she would not give in after they had come all this way. “Good day,” she called to the man. “We are in needs of healing.” 

“Can you pay?” came the high-pitched reply. 

Brienne turned to Ser Addam, who tentatively raised a small purse and shook it so that the sound of coins falling together could be heard. The man grinned broadly at that and opened his door wider, stepping back and motioning them all to come inside. 

As Brienne touched Jaime’s elbow, he tried to lean into her, his face painted in concern and confusion, but she hurried him along, attempting to avoid his questions.  Perhaps it was best he could not see at this moment.

“My name is Tanford,” the man was saying as Tyrek entered first. “I spent ten years at the Citadel. Got pretty far, I did. But,” he nodded as Clegane lumbered past.  “The proclivities of a young man, you know.” He chuckled at that and smiled at Lady Sansa, but Lady Dacey hurried to grab her shoulder and made sure that Tanford noticed the sword at her hip. “Ah, well.  You all look fairly beaten and weary.  Can’t say you are the first to come to my door, though some are seeking to steal, rather than to be healed.  What _has_ the realm come to?” 

“We wish you no harm,” Brienne promised.  She was the last to walk in and was left alone with the man as the others settled inside.  “We only mean to help our wounded and be on our way.” 

“You may have some trouble traveling,” Tanford said.  “Westeros is in quite the upheaval.” 

Brienne followed him into a dark and warm room.  There was a small fireplace that was only spitting out tiny flames from burnt wood, creating a fragrant smoke from the herbs that had been recently thrown inside.  Thick candles dotted the wall, with yellowed wax dripping down the stone and mud, pooling on top of the dried mound on the floor.  A large round table took up most of the space.  It had mismatched chairs strewn about it and piles of large volumes scattered on the surface.  Clegane sat at it, far from the fire, and the Stark girls remained close by him. 

A thick and heavily embroidered rug was cast next to the hearth, with stools littered about, where Peck and Tyrek had seated themselves. And on the other side of the room was a string of low, simple pallets.  Ser Addam was lowering Jaime to the one beside where Lady Dacey was sitting grasping her side and wincing. 

The traveling party looked like a motley of ages and wounds. Brienne watched them all sigh and settle, stretching out their legs and beginning to hope for some respite before they had to move on again.  The thought only unsettled her more, since it entailed splitting the group again and continuing on without Jaime. 

She was so intent on her scrutiny she almost did not hear Tanford prattling on as he went about collecting items from a large cupboard beside a closed door. “The forest is safe but once you travel out into the Neck, beware of thieves.” He turned back with bottles and linen in his hand.  “Gods, but that is nothing compared to the south.” He glanced around at the wary and dangerous expressions staring back at him.  “I _do_ hope you are not heading south.” 

“We know to stay well away from the Twins,” Brienne replied, hoping the Starks were not listening too much. 

Tanford snorted.  “The Twins is old news. All of my customers are buzzing about the wedding in King’s Landing!” 

“What wedding?” Jaime demanded from the cot.  He tensed, uncaring of any that noticed his concern. Brienne imagined he was thinking about his sister. 

“Why, Joffrey and Queen Margery!” Jaime’s shoulders did not loosen, but, instead of relaxing, he leaned forward as Tanford continued. “It wasn’t much of a wedding, mind you, not when the groom keels over at the end of it!” A sharp inhale from Jaime was drowned out by Lady Sansa suppressing a high squeak. Tanford took if for excitement. “I heard he choked on the pie. Or that he had been stabbed by a servant. But the result is the same. Joffrey is dead!” 

Clegane chuckled darkly, turning a leering gray eye on Lady Sansa. “You hear that, little bird? Your former betrothed is crow food.” 

She looked at him, head high and back straight, not even a flinch for the marred flesh hidden by limp black hair.  “Good.” 

“But,” Tanford interrupted, eager by his captivated audience. “It was none of those things that killed him.  Apparently the Imp poisoned him! Told the whole court about it, too, the cocky bugger.” 

From the edges of her vision, Brienne saw Jaime try to stand and Ser Addam push him down, though he was just as tense and intent upon Tanford’s recount. The others remained still and quiet, melding into the shadows and averting their own eyes from witnessing what was to surely come next. 

“Well, Queen Cersei put an end to that right quick,” the acolyte continued. “They say his head is already picked apart by the crows and flies.” 

Brienne had thought she had known suffocating silence but the quiet that fell over the hut was thick and demanding, sliding down her throat and squeezing her lungs until she was left gasping for breath.  She was shocked to find that the fire had not been snuffed out as the air in the room seemed to have escaped in every hole and crack available. 

She could not look at Jaime, too frightened at what she would find, just as worried for despair as anger.  But the words of the man had crashed and surged against her body, wicking away without sinking in.  So, she just stared at the plump Tanford as he looked back at her, waiting for a reaction he could gobble up and digest in his round belly. 

“I mean to say,” he said as if he was talking to a slow-witted child. “The queen executed her dwarf brother!” 

The silence broke apart and shattered, filled to swelling with the ascending sound of Jaime’s beastly wail.


	19. The Path Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has been commenting! And Happy Thanksgiving to those in the States!
> 
> To my dear Coraleeveritas, she is constantly teaching me how to mold a story and how to shake myself of my cold, technical writing style to write more from the heart. I continue to learn so much from her and from her talent and I am always grateful for the time she has taken to teach me how to be a better writer and a better person. Thank you for everything you are!
> 
> And I have to give thanks to Sandwichesyumyum and her dedication to supporting and uplifting this story. She has been a constant friend to me and to Coralee. There are no words to truly say how honored I am to have this gifted author and beautiful person in my life.

He yelled into the silence that had swallowed up the sounds of the others. Moments before, his mind had been filled with the clanging of armor, the creaking of chairs, voices floating around his head as whispered conversations had broken out amongst their party. Even Addam’s labored breath, as he helped ease him down on to a cot, had hammered in his ear. But now there was only an endless ringing like he had been standing next to one of the bells of the Sept of Baleor. It whined, cold and dead, drowning out the anguish, the agony blooming behind his eyelids, and the anger that was bursting from his throat, too heavy and consuming to be held inside his broken body. 

“Jaime!” Addam was shouting. 

 _No. Tyrion.  Tyrion is the name to be screaming._  

At some point during the destruction of his world, Addam had started bellowing and shaking him violently, though he hardly felt the crushing grip that numbed his arms, nor heard him over the din of this new betrayal. The Freys and Boltons had learned well from a family that would even murder their own, just to maintain power. He knew that no one on the other side of the veil of darkness would care about the loss of his brother, not after they had all witnessed the massacre of an entire region, for the North was truly dead now, but for him, it meant everything.

“Jaime!” Now Brienne’s voice was trying to draw him out of the thick and heavy mire.  When he struggled to surface this time, he could feel a wetness dampening his cheeks and becoming caught in his beard.  Her fingers were there instantly, wiping away the tears with the pads of her dry, rough thumbs while her palms held his face up.  She was looking at him, demanding that he let her see him, though he could not do the same. “Jaime…” 

“They did it, Brienne,” he moaned, leaning in to her touch, uncaring of anyone else but her.  “I should have been there. He _knew_ what they were capable of.  But,” he laughed again, fearing and welcoming the insanity, which had taken him after leaving the Twins, as it claimed him again.  “I was too blind to see it myself!” 

 _My brother._  

“You couldn’t have-“ 

“By the Seven, is that the _Kingslayer_?” the maester squeaked, interrupting them. 

There was the sudden clamor of a chair being pushed back, hard enough that its legs squealed against the floor before it toppled and splintered. Heavy footsteps thudded quickly, closing the distance.  And then, there was a thump against the wall, knocking candles and scattering bottles, followed by a constricted protest, along with a maidenly gasp. 

“You bleat what you _think_ is happening to any of your other patrons, _maester_ , and you’ll not be able to do much but croak since you’ll be without a tongue…” Sandor Clegane barked.  After a heartbeat of silence, he added, “and balls” in the same tone, earning him a squeak that must have come from Lady Sansa. 

With much coughing and spluttering, Jaime assumed Tanford acquiesced, as there were no further sounds, save for Clegane lumbering back to take another seat. 

“Take Jaime outside, Lady Brienne,” Addam said.  “We will determine Tanford’s usefulness.” 

“You won’t kill him,” the mulish wench replied and Jaime could hear her frown grotesquely. 

“Let’s go,” Jaime sighed.  The sharp, piercing pain in his temples was beginning again.  The injustice angered him less for his own fate than the realization that he could still feel pain, when Tyrion could no longer feel anything. 

Brienne wrapped her arm around his waist, accustomed enough now that she only slightly hesitated before touching him, only just minutely startling when he responded by putting his hand on her shoulder, allowing her to pull him up. They hobbled through the room that was coming back to Jaime’s senses, the ones he still had, at least. He could hear quiet murmuring and shuffling in seats.  He smelled the pungent smoke, thick and cloying, and beneath the layer of herbs and medicinals and must, he could discern Brienne. The smell of her sweat and their horse stirred up a memory that brought him back to the only small patch of soft sand near Casterly, hidden amongst the rocks, a place that he had never even shared with Cersei.  He had not understood back then why he would not bring his other half there, but now he knew. 

 _It had not been meant for her._  

They moved together without speaking, leaving the cottage and wandering past where Jaime could hear their horses snorting and stamping in the damp air. Brienne was nearly carrying him, dragging his boots through the earth and grunting as she hefted him without stopping her hurried pace.  He was shivering, he realized, and beneath the sounds of her struggling to support his weight, he could hear himself sobbing.  But, despite knowing what the gently gurgling sounds were, he found he could not control his body, unable to force himself to walk or to cease his quaking and weeping. 

 _The only family I should have cared about._  

“His blood is on my hands,” Jaime cried. 

Brienne let him go, allowing him to slip to the ground on his knees. “I’m sorry, Jaime.” 

“I should have been there.  I should have taken him with me.  I should have done _something_ but left him with those monsters.”  _Varys had told me what I wanted to hear, what I needed to think in order to leave the city.  And I let him feed me like one his of little birds._  

“Could…” Brienne hesitated and kicked through piles of desiccated leaves by her toes.  “Could he have done what…your sister accused him of? Tanford said he confessed-“ 

“Oh yes,” Jaime laughed.  “The Lannisters still love their golden king slayer, but the bane of our beautiful family, the dwarf, a king slayer a _nd_ a kin slayer, would make us seek justice, then.” She w _ould_ think that a brother of his would be capable of such things. “No.  Ty-“, he swallowed down the name and the rising bile and tried again.  “Tyrion knew that our dear _sister_ and loving _father_ had no use for him anymore.  They simply exploited the opportunity afforded to them to get rid of him.  After all, the list of those that would want Joffrey dead is just as high as the number of noble houses in Westeros.” 

“Do you really think your sist-family is capable of this?” Brienne asked. Her voice was floating above him as she refused to be too close to him in his grief.  And Jaime did not know what he would have done if she had been within reach. 

“I wouldn’t have a year ago.  But after….my capture.  And then, going back...I should have known.” 

“Do you still want to return?” It was a simple question, one that any could ask with innocence and curiosity and judgment.  But coming from Brienne, it held a weight that stuck the words to her tongue, pushing his shoulders down into the remnants of autumn littering the ground when they finally fell from her mouth. 

He wanted to hold her then, to have her be a comfort when he did not think that anyone or anything else could soothe the rage and loss in his cold heart. And yet, she still doubted, hovering just beyond him, poised to disappear or to sink into him. “I was returning to my duty and to my brother, Brienne.  Only that.” 

They lapsed into another bout of uneasy silence.  Jaime let a final stream of tears and uncontainable gasps of shaky breath leak out of him before he sighed and made to rise. There was no need to sit in another unknown location and wallow. 

But then, Brienne spoke.  “I lost a brother.” He paused on one knee, tilting his ear to listen and wishing he could also read her face as she gave him something of herself.  But she quickly stumbled over her next words, uncertainty lacing her voice.  “I-I mean, I barely remember him.  I was young. So was he.  It-I don’t mean to compare you and your own brother. I just meant…” 

“Was it an accident?” 

“Yes.” Jaime felt her lean down and extend her hand, just enough that the tips grazed across his shoulder.  “There was nothing I could have done.” 

Before she could manage to retreat, Jaime snatched at her fingers, ignoring the slight swell of pride when he caught them on his first attempt. She gasped, just as surprised by his success, and then hissed when he jerked her hand forward, yanking her down to her knees.  Closer now, he was able to snake his arm around her waist, hitting her shoulder first, and then her stomach, before he found the gap between her chest and elbow to run his hand through.  She yielded when he tugged and shuffled his way to her.  And finally, he had her head buried in his neck and her arms holding his shoulders while he pressed her against his chest and thighs. 

He did not know what prompted him to try to hold the wench or why she was willing to let him, but the weight of her in his arms calmed him. 

The steady, though rapid, beating of her heart, set the pace for his own, while her heavy breaths against his collarbone reminded him to continue inhaling and exhaling.  _In_ , as the loss of her warm pants cooled his skin and left him bereft.  _Out_ , as the humid air washed over his neck and trickled beneath his tunic.      

“Jaime?” she murmured against his jaw.  She did not move, but she did squirm slightly. 

“Shush.” 

“Jaime?” Addam called from behind them. 

“Seven hells,” he grumbled.  Knowing the wench too well, he tightened his hold on her before she could jolt away. He had her.  He knew where she was and he could _see_ her through his hands running over her broad back and into her hair, which felt brittle under his fingers, up her muscled arms and down her straight sides, flatter than his own.  He would not let go of the image.  “What is it, Addam?” 

“There’s more.” 

Brienne removed her head from his neck.  “We should go back inside.” 

“It might be better to tell you two alone,” Addam replied. His steps were heavy as he approached, dragging them through the leaves, and crouched next to them. Jaime tried to look in his direction, though he knew he was likely missing his mark, and Brienne turned in his arms to regard Addam as well.  If he still had his sight, perhaps she would have continued to hide in his embrace, quelling her embarrassment at being found cradled against the Kingslayer by blocking out Addam’s face, but, instead, she gave Addam the eye contact that only one of them was able to offer.  “Tanford’s interest in you, Jaime, was because there is a bounty out for you.” 

“What?” Jaime barked. 

“From whom?” Brienne asked in the same moment.  Her hands slid from his shoulders and she sat in the circle of his loose legs, while his arms dropped limply into his lap. 

“Well,” Addam paused indecisively.   “According to Tanford, though we did all we could to ensure he wasn’t lying, Lord Tywin is the one that offered one thousand dragons to whomever could bring you to him alive, or could give him your whereabouts.” 

As he chewed on his tongue and gripped his thighs, Jaime cursed his family. He was another loose string to tie up. And without Tyrion, there was one less being in the realm that was as conniving and cunning as Tywin Lannister. _Who could truly stop him now?_ “On what terms does he state the need for my presence?” 

“The letter, which Tanford does not possess, mind, claims that you were kidnapped and, as such, have been removed of your duties as Lord Commander-“ 

“How can he?” Brienne interrupted.  “No Lord Commander has been made to step down.” 

“Queen Cersei dismissed Barristan Selmy.” 

“My father did not agree with what Cersei did,” Jaime replied. But he knew it was useless to argue and plea.  The loss of Ser Barristan had harmed the integrity and employment of the Kingsguard.  But his father must have been furious at Jaime for leaving the city without his knowledge and, now, he was striking where he thought Jaime’s heart still laid.  Even sitting in nameless, Northern dirt, Jaime knew the action was also taking advantage of the unravelling situation to achieve what Tywin had been aiming at for half of his elder son’s life. 

“Yes but…sh-she removed Ser Barristan _completely_ ,” Brienne urged.  There was a silence in which Jaime could see in his mind Brienne working furiously at her lip and frowning.  She would stretch her freckles if she kept doing such.  But he kept quiet, as did Addam, and waited while she realized what was being said.   “Jaime is no longer in the _Kingsguard_?” she gasped. 

“It appears not, My Lady,” Addam said.  “And Jaime is supposed to be returned to Casterly Rock, not King’s Landing, to immediately take up his role as Lord.” 

 _Cersei must have celebrated with another glass of wine at that, her useless brother being sent far away, stopping his keeping to keep her from fucking whomever she needed to._  

“No.” Brienne was firm and she became rigid between his legs, though her hard denial made him want to find ways for her to melt back into him. 

“Family, duty, honor.  Isn’t that what your beloved Catelyn lived by?” Jaime snorted, pulling up his knees, to release Brienne from the circle of his body, and resting his arms on them. 

“She also said that winter is coming,” Brienne replied.  She sounded annoyed now.  At him.  _Good_. 

“A nonsensical phrase.” 

“Jaime,” Addam sighed.  “Are you really going to go back and take the seat at Casterly?” 

Jaime laughed, imagining being locked back in that castle, rotting just as quickly as Tyrion’s corpse, as his father and sister continued to ruin the realm. “Gods, no.  We’ll see how well this _maester_ ,” he gritted his teeth at that, “can heal me and then I’ll go with Brienne.” 

He was starting to hate the silences, as his mind filled with the image of Brienne and Addam exchanging looks of concern and pity.  The thought twitched at his jaw, which made him reach up to scratch at his cheek.  "Afraid a blind man will slow you down, wench? 

"You’re going to bend the knee to the _Starks_?" Addam ignored the biting of the lion but Jaime felt the wash of cold air as Brienne stood abruptly. 

"Who said anything about throwing my lot in with the wolves? I'm going with Brienne.  And if she wants to go north, then we will go north.  A lady needs a shield, after all." He showed his teeth, knowing it was not a charming or feral grin, but he snarled at where he thought Brienne was anyway, tilting his chin up and rubbing again at the growing beard that was beginning to itch.

"And why would you chose this path, Ser?" Brienne icily replied, erecting, with her tone, a wall as high and cold as the one in the north. It had taken the First Men an age to forge such a frigid barrier and yet, this singular maiden had adapted to raise it in a heartbeat. 

"What? Suddenly you do not wish for my company?" 

"Suddenly you do not wish to return to your family?" 

 _Family. A dead mother. A dead brother. A distant father. And a disloyal lover._  

Jaime snarled again in annoyance, clumsily rising to his feet by keeping his hands on the ground until he could straighten up without tilting, his world shifting and his body fighting for some point of sight to focus on. Brienne did not reach out to help him. "I told you before, my reasons for going back.  Tell me, what’s left for me there now?" 

"If you have no other place to go-" 

Jaime huffed.  "I have enough options, but I _choose_ -" 

"Then you must swear to protect Lady Sansa and Lady Arya," she plowed on like the obstinate mule she was.  "Even from your fellow bannermen." 

" _Former_ ," Jaime hissed. 

"Perhaps you should think about this," Addam interrupted. "You have...suffered greatly and you may not be thinking right, Jaime.  You can't really mean to abandon your family and your allegiance." 

"Ser Addam has the right," Brienne replied, still chilled and distant, her clipped words a haze of blue in the fog of darkness. "You should consider what your choices mean before making a mistake." 

Despite hearing her ungainly retreat, Jaime could not help but call out after her into the black.  “Do you think our time together has been a mistake, wench?” When her dragging and stomping faltered, and for a moment he thought she would surely return, he took what little satisfaction he could in that.  She would never be Cersei.  Even if she pushed him away for good, she would always be better than him, too good for him, too pure and honorable.  But he would never stop following, hoping for that pause. 

“What in the seven hells is going on?” Addam broke through his tight concentration on the sounds of Brienne. 

Crossing his arms and trying to glare as Brienne continued away from him, Jaime sighed.  "I'll not hold it against you for returning." 

"So that I may be accused of your kidnapping? Tortured for your whereabouts? Tyrion's end would look like a gift compared to what your family would do to me." 

Jaime felt his body pulling him, a part wishing to lunge at the man who had long been his friend and tear out his throat, to show him just how cruel a Lannister could be, while another piece demanded he fall back to his knees and let the Stranger claim him.  The Warrior had turned His back on him.  The Mother was wailing for Her lost child in the heavens.  And the Father was his enemy.  Even the Maiden had cast Her gentle touch aside and left him in the dark, without even the light of the Crone to guide him back to _her_.  Jaime cared not to look upon the stars or the wildflowers or the ocean again.  There was a blue, deep and healing, that he thirsted to drink in. 

"I would drain my lungs if I were to apologize for all my family's wrongs, Addam," Jaime finally said, hardly even sure the man was still standing with him.  "But I cannot be sorry for my actions, not even that they forced you to not be able to return home." 

"Are you sorry that they sentenced your brother?" Addam snapped back.   _Every day_.  "Gods, Jaime, forgive me.  Nothing and no one could have stopped Lord Tywin."  

 _I could have.  I could have at least tried.  Forgive me, Tyrion, for still feeling relief that I managed to save her._  

After a heavy pause, thick with the happy memories of their childhood and the divide their duties had rent between them, Addam continued.  "If you mean to follow this woman, then I'll go with you.  Perhaps I'll find my own in the north."  There was a grin in his words, one Jaime could picture easily behind his eyelids and he gave his own small smile in reply. 

While Jaime itched beneath his skin at the idea of protecting the Starks, a dark desire to watch his father and sister become consumed by the wolves that they had been hunting was surging through his veins.  He wanted to make them hurt and regret every pain they had tossed at Tyrion, up to the very end.  But, he knew, in no way would that forgive him for his own part in the fear and despair that his brother, his only beloved family, must have felt.  He would forever carry that burden of what being a Lannister truly meant. 

 _The lions eat their own_. 

“Help me back to the cabin, Addam,” Jaime said.  “It seems my wench has left me.” 

Addam chuckled and patted his shoulder, giving him small pushes to guide him. “Quite a lady you’ve come to fancy. I’d be more curious if I hadn’t seen her take on an entire field of men with a morning star…And carry you out of the Twins.” 

“Brienne carried me?” 

“Oh, aye,” Addam was smiling through his words again.  “I was too distracted trying to remember how the bloody hells to get us all out of there.  And Clegane was carrying Dacey, er, Lady Dacey.  We lost Ser Humphrey and Lewtter, which only left me with Ryn and the Strongboar to make our own way out, since Lady Dacey and you took up the cart. And Peck was a bit torn up. The boy hasn’t killed anyone before. And there was plenty of killing in there.” He grew silent and forgot to steer Jaime, who promptly tripped over a fallen branch.  “I envied you for a bit. What I wouldn’t give to not have seen what I did.” 

“There are some sights that are worth the worst nightmares,” Jaime replied, fighting to keep his voice even and devoid of a tremor.  He had a lifetime of learning to stow away such feelings, but he had little experience with the idea that someone like Brienne would risk her life for his own.  He doubted Cersei would ever do that. 

Addam finally managed to thread them both through the doorway and back into the room that Jaime could feel was heated with the many bodies of his companions and the mild fire, its thick smoke niggling at his nose and curling around his tongue.  He was proud to catch the voice of Arya, despite having not heard her speak enough for the young grating rasp of her hurriedly hushed whisper to be familiar.  She was muttering, her words lost in the hiss of the logs sizzling and in the deeper conversations of Ser Bonifer and Clegane, and she was occasionally answered by the sonorous and light sigh of her sister. 

“Those ribs should set nicely, My Lady,” the Citadel novice was saying. Jaime’s chest tightened for a moment, thinking that Brienne had been hauling him around with broken bones. But the man continued. “You’ve got a nasty bruise on your hip but nothing should be cracked beneath.  It will all heal and you’ll remain just as unblemished and lovely as before.” 

“Thank you,” Lady Dacey grumbled. 

“Have you attended to Lady Brienne?” Jaime heard himself asking, swallowing the boiling in his stomach that made his words harsh and heated. 

Turning suddenly, Jaime knew he had found Brienne in the darkness. The black of his sight was becoming a deep midnight, lightening to a gloomy cobalt, like the sky just before the sun would rise.  He knew she was standing in the middle of the blue, turning his sight to color with her presence. 

“I am fine, Ser,” she murmured, her voice drifting directly in front of where he was blindly staring.  “Lady Dacey needed attendance first.” 

“Now it’s your turn, Brienne,” Lady Dacey said. 

“No. Ser Jaime should be next.” 

“Yes, yes,” Tanford eagerly agreed.  Jaime felt thick, strong hands on his arm, gripping and pulling hard enough to yank his feet from under him, causing him to lurch forward and stagger. “Sit! I am _sure_ I can find the source of your blindness.” 

Tender, large fingers carefully removed him from the novice’s demanding grasp and set him right.  Jaime followed Brienne’s touch without complaint as she placed her palms on his back and helped him to reach a cot, turning him around and pushing him down so that he could sit comfortably.  The warmth from her body was welcome, though he was not sure if she was helping him out of pity or forgiveness.  It hardly mattered to him, as she did not leave again, but placed herself on the edge of the cot, too far for their limbs to accidentally graze but close enough they could reach out for each other, should they want to. 

Tanford moved by his side to begin pushing and tugging at Jaime’s head. When he rubbed a painful area, Jaime would hiss while Brienne muttered some warning protest, causing Tanford to retreat and become softer, before his excitement and curiosity sent him skimming over Jaime’s scalp again.  Instead of waiting for the next twang of discomfort, Jaime concentrated on the sound of Brienne constantly working her hands.  Her rough skin whispered as she wiped her palms together and slid her fingers between each other.  The sound changed when she dried her flesh against the linen of her breeches, scrunching up the fabric as she balled her hands into fists each time Jaime winced. It lulled him, the familiar fidgeting that used to set his teeth scraping and thrilled his blood whenever he had been able to force her to squirm beneath his gaze and words. 

After Tanford had properly tortured him enough, Brienne could take no more. “One of the kind villagers in the area thought that perhaps it was temporary.” 

“There’s no way to know, really,” Tanford muttered.  He pressed hard on the back of Jaime’s head and Jaime jerked away with a pinched cry, alternating between blinking rapidly and squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to chase away the light bursts.  “There.  Where does that hurt?” 

“Everywhere.” 

“You must follow the path.  We know where it starts, but pain always ends.  You must feel where.  I’m going to do it again. Ready?” 

 _Pain always ends._  

“Do it.”  Tanford pressed down, harder than before, and Jaime slammed the heels of his hand against his temples, hoping to push out the sharp pressure and let it burst from his unseeing eyes. “Gods, it’s even coming out of my ears.” 

Brienne’s fingers fell on the inside of his elbow like butterflies lightly kissing the sleeve of his tunic, the one that she had helped him don that morning. But just as suddenly as the touch had alighted on his arm, she retracted it.  In the haze and disorientation of pain, Jaime tried to reach out but he could not find her again. 

“Just your ears?” Tanford asked, dousing the heat Brienne had unknowingly caused. 

“No. Out my eyes, my teeth, my toes, _everywhere_ for Seven’s sake.” 

Tanford clapped loudly and Jaime winced, the sound, once again, setting off the bells ringing in his head.  “Your eyes? Does anything _happen_ with the pain?” 

“Yes,” Jaime snarled, scrubbing at his itching jaw.  “I curse.  I make faces. You should know this. _I’m_ the blind one.  Has everyone else gone blind as well? And deaf?” 

“Jaime.” Brienne warned, her voice rough but comforting all the same. _When did she start giving me_ that _tone?_  

“It’s fine, My Lady,” Tanford soothed.  “I’ve had more difficult patients.” 

Brienne rested her hand on him again, waiting. 

“There are…lights…that hurt,” Jaime finally said. 

“Lights?” Tanford squealed.  “That is good! Very good!” 

“Is it?” Brienne asked.  Jaime hated the lace of hope that she tried to tamp down and the way her grasp on him became truly a hold of comfort. 

“Yes! It means that the pain and his eyes are linked.  The path has not been severed.  And so it can be healed!” 

“How long?” Brienne said. 

“How can you know?” Jaime demanded loudly, in the same instant. 

The whisper of heavy wool suggested Tanford shrugged.  “I have neither answer.  But the books-“ 

“Books?” Jaime barked. 

“Y-yes. As I-I’ve said. I wa-was just a nov-novice!” 

Jaime snorted.  If only Cersei could see him now, blind and desperate for the healing of a reject of the Citadel, hiding from their family and only dreaming of an ugly, young maiden to save him from it all. 

“What did the books say?” Brienne persisted.  Her voice was calm and soothing, just as she spoke to their horse when it was agitated, like how she had spoken to him during those warm nights around the campfire, and further nights inside his head.  He did not care for her to speak that way to this man now, a man that he could only form a rough image of in his mind, since he would never see how he truly looked. 

“Thank you, My Lady,” Tanford sighed.  “I _read_ that head injuries could bruise or impair what joins the eyes to the mind.  It is believed that these pathways could be permanently severed, something that could happen at birth or at any point in life. And it need not even be a brutal event to have caused it!” When no one expressed equal interest at that piece of information, Tanford coughed and continued.  “Well, in any case, if light is still being received in the eyes, then previous documented instances of blindness suggest that connections are still being made between what the eyes _see_ and what the mind receives.  Now, it could be that these lights are all that could ever be seen but there have been times when the lights lead to more lights and soon the world can be recognized again.  But every report has been different.  There was never a pattern the maesters could detect.” 

“So, there’s a chance I will always be like this,” Jaime said. 

“And a chance that he could recover fully,” Brienne pressed. 

“Yes and yes.” 

“What do we have to do?” Brienne asked, her tightening grip on him now painful. She seemed not to have noticed she had included herself in his darkness, or else she would have scampered away, blushing and snatching back the words. 

“Well, the maesters were of different minds.  Stretch the eyes, keep looking at the lights, and massage the head, to work out the pressure.  Though with such an obvious wound in the back, I would say rest and no jostling, lest those connections become severed with further injury.” 

“We have a hard ride ahead of us, so I’ll take my chances,” Jaime grumbled. 

“Ser-“ Brienne breathed. 

“He’s right, Lady Brienne,” Bonifer spoke up.  “We must plan and move.  He knew the risks when he came to the Twins.” 

 _The risks. Did I know I would never see Brienne again except for a heartbeat? Did I know that my absence would mean the death of my brother? The risks are the unknown.  The known is always so much worse._  

“We shall do what we can for Ser Ja-“ Lady Sansa started, before Addam coughed loudly and Clegane barked.  “-for him. _We_ take care of our own.” 

“And when did these enemies and traitors become _ours_?” Arya snapped. 

“When did we all agree that the wolf bitch wouldn’t be gagged?” Clegane countered. 

Addam sighed.  “Tyrek, take Tanford outside and _watch_ him while we discuss.” 

Grumbling at the grievance, the boy stamped across the room, the floorboards squeaking at his sharp weight and sending up whispers as Tanford’s robe swirled about his hurried feet as he was bustled out of his own home. No one spoke or moved until the door slammed behind the two. 

“I have been thinking about where we could take Lady Sansa and Lady Arya,” the Mormont woman said. 

“Yes, My Lady?” Sansa prompted hopefully. 

The others quieted and Jaime could sense the shift in the room, from a handful of voices and thoughts to the attention falling towards the cot where the she-bear was propped.  And now that he was sure there was no one lingering to watch him and the wench, he snaked his hand up the arm Brienne was still absently holding.  He managed to pull her fingers from his sleeve, blood pumping back down to his wrist again, and twine them between his own, entranced by the sweat smoothing out her rough skin while his dry flesh caught on the jagged nails and frayed cuticles at her fingertips.  Though her entire body jolted at his touch, she did not pull away. He imagined her blush alone was hot enough to warm him in the wintry night air.  

“Ki-King Ro-Robb,” Lady Dacey took a large, steadying breath, reminding Jaime of Brienne’s own failed attempts at mention of Renly. “He had been making plans against the Ironborn be-before… _before_.” Another deep inhale was made, trembling enough that Jaime doubted she had sucked in enough air to continue 

“Lady Dacey,” Sansa quietly soothed.  With a swish of skirts and steps too light for even Jaime to discern, the cot merely sang softly as Sansa moved to sit next to the last of her bannermen. “Please, tell us.” 

“H-he sent my mother and Galbert Glover with encoded messages to Greywater Watch, to prepare for an attack.  It would be the safest place right now.” 

“Are you suggesting we bring Lady Sansa to those bog devils in the Neck?” Bonifer huffed.  “They are faithless swamp vermin.” 

“They are _loyal_ Stark liegemen,” Dacey shot back. 

“Yeah, and Lord Reed was a friend of Father’s,” Arya piped up. 

“That the one with the fucking _moving_ castle?” Clegane said.  “Would be a good spot to hide the bird and the wolf.” 

“We are both wolves, Ser,” Sansa pouted.  

“I ain’t no ser, girl,” the Hound replied, though Jaime was worried to find there was less anger in his tone than was usual.  The Stark heir should have been pinned to a wall by now, about to have her pretty head removed by the ravenous dog.  But all he did was come to heel with a whine.  “You chirp and she bites.  I say it like I see it.” 

“Clegane has a point, though,” Addam said.  “If we mean to keep the Starks concealed until they can decide their next move, the swamps would be the best option.” 

“But,” came Peck’s squeaking voice.  “If it’s so difficult to find, how are _we_ going to get there?” 

“The crannogmen will find _you_ ,” Lady Dacey replied darkly, the edges of pride tinting her words. 

“What do you think, Lady Brienne?” Sansa suddenly asked.  

And again, the room adjusted so that Jaime felt the heat of numerous gazes turn towards them.  He sat up straighter while Brienne’s fingers became slick eels beneath his hold as her sweat broke out anew.  It allowed her to slip away from him as she hunched into herself.  His hand felt empty, so he used it to scratch at the itching, coarse hairs growing above his lip. 

“My Lady?” Brienne whispered. 

“You and Lady Dacey are my only advisers right now,” Sansa replied. “I would like to know if you agree with her suggestion.” 

Brienne shifted uncomfortably.  “Yes, Lady Sansa.  I believe you were meant to go and find Lord Reed.” 

“Then we shall make for Greywater Watch.” 

While the hum returned to the room, deep voices becoming the drums to the plucked songs of the women, Jaime leaned towards Brienne.  “Sansa was _meant_ to go to the Reeds?” 

More shifting was followed by folds of linen rubbing together as Brienne moved further away from him to hug herself.  “I had a dream.” 

Jaime snorted and sat back, giving her the space she was trying to reclaim. “I’ve had plenty of dreams I hoped were real.  And I’ve had nightmares I’m glad were just in my mind.  Hells, the waking truths are not much better.” 

“I know this is the right thing to do, Ser.” 

Sighing, Jaime threw up his hands.  “What would I know about _right_ , wench? I’ll follow you into the swamps.  You may just have to lead me, though.” 

“Perhaps you will have your sight back by then.” She sounded too eager and encouraging.  

Jaime felt the urge to bite back at her, to rip apart her innocence and hope. But instead, he sucked on his tongue until he thought he may choke on it.  “You must be tired of leading around the poor Kingslayer like a lame horse.” 

“You would do the same for me.” 

“Would I?” Another one of those wretched silences passed, giving Jaime time to simmer in his growing ire. 

“You said you came to the Twins for me.” 

“I did.” She said nothing to this.  “Is that why you are helping me now? Because it’s a primal duty that’s been instilled in you, to help the weak? You should have been a Lannister if you feel so strongly about paying your debts.” 

“It has nothing to do with any obligation.” She paused, slow to gather her thoughts, as always, and frightened of her words.  But Jaime knew to wait, though he was so tired of waiting. “You could still go back.” 

That was not what he had expected her to say.  “So you are done with me.” 

“I just don’t understand why you would want to stay.” 

Jaime grunted.  He wished he could properly roll his eyes and glare at her, watching her react in ways she could not hide.  “But you think you know why I would want to return.  You think so poorly of me that I forgive myself and my family?” 

“N-no, Ser.” Brienne stuttered.  She placed her fingers on his hand, but Jaime pulled away.  He had enough of her gentle, chaste touches, burning his skin and setting his chest aflame.  “Perhaps… _she_ did not have anything to do with…” She could not even say it, to bring herself to utter the horror and treachery.  And yet Brienne still fought to find any way to continue living in her world of honor and trust and faith. She refused to understand that the Lannisters did not belong in that realm. 

“You know that’s not what happened.  And if you can convince yourself otherwise, know that _I_ _know_ that’s not what happened.” 

“Would you still say that if you were not blind?” 

And there it was at last.  “No.” He snapped the word and felt the released air suck into her sharp inhale. “If I wasn’t blind, Tyrion would still be alive.” 

“You mean, if you hadn’t left King’s Landing.” 

He snatched at her then, not caring what he grabbed.  She could have pulled away, even as his blunt fingernails dug into the linen covering her shoulder.  At least, she should have protested and ran.  But she did not.  “You think I should regret coming for you.  But I don’t. I hate myself for my brother, Brienne, more than I have for anything else.  And yet I hate my sister and father more.” He took a moment to swallow the fire that coursed up his throat at the thought of them, ruling from their seats in Kings Landing, and he loosened his hold on her, rubbing down her arm and then up along her collar soothingly.  “But I’m not here as the Kingslayer or a Lannister.  I’m not even here as the Lord Commander anymore. It’s just me.” Her pulse was pounding hard enough that he could feel it reverberate along the fragile bones buried deep beneath muscle and skin, beating against his touch. And, still, she said nothing. He let her go and rubbed angrily at his jaw.  “Seven hells, I wish I could see you.” 

“You’ve been scratching that beard for days,” she finally murmured. “We’ll have to trim it so you can grow it right to keep you warm in the north.” 

Jaime smiled.  Even if she did not accept his reasons, she would at least be his blue beacon in the dark. “I look forward to it, wench.”


	20. The Close Shave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note, the next chapter will be updated after the holidays, but I hope to post a one shot for the JB Holiday Prompt during the normal Fate week!
> 
> Sometimes I still can't believe that Corleeveritas lets me send these chapters and talks to me about plot. And yet she does it with enthusiasm and support. She may never know how much that means to me, how much that fuels this story, but I will still say thank you to her every chance I get, anyway!
> 
> And Sandwichesyumyum has also been an amazing rock! She always finds the little things that niggle at me and I can't get right, but she swoops in and fixes just what I need. No matter how busy she is, she takes the time for me and this story. That is truly special!
> 
> These two women are so talented and the gifts of getting to read their own stories and to be given sneak peeks and to be allowed to discuss about the some of my favorite pieces with two of my favorite writers, keeps me smiling and inspired!

Jaime’s emerald eyes were still clouded and staring at a horizon not of the same world Brienne lived in.  But they could see now, in a way.  They were fixed on a point, a memory, an image created from the nightmares, perhaps, but all the same, she knew he could see pain.  It was an unwanted vision breaking through his darkness. And it haunted Brienne. 

She crouched dumbly in the cloying silence, hovering over him while she rocked back on the balls of her feet, watching the way his legs were folded before him and his wrists propped on his knees, fingertips lazily swirling the earth. He was simply waiting, a knowing smile twitching his beard and trembling along his lips. 

They had retreated to a patch of forest a short distance from Tanford’s cabin. It had been a long night of fitful dozing, waking to Jaime’s cries at first and then continuously roused by the intensity of his alert stare as he spent the rest of the evening sitting over her. Yet, despite the heaviness and gloom, the morning inevitability still came, light piercing the slats and cracks in the walls to wriggle through inside, brightening the room. The rest of their group awoke with the growing sun and set off to gather supplies and eat and tend the horses. They would move on soon, now with an urgency of a destination and a plan settling into rested muscles. But Jaime, feeling useless and in need of being alone, had pushed her to do as she had promised the night before. He wanted a shave. 

Tanford had been willing enough to give Brienne his razor and had even scrounged together a loose ball of soap that would give a creamy lather to help ease the blade down Jaime’s skin.  But, while she had the items, and the light through the trees was becoming soft and shining, she still hesitated. 

“I’ve never shaved a man before,” she murmured. 

Jaime huffed at that, sending plumes of his breath swirling about him like dragon’s smoke, a smirk sparking his face for an instant, before it was snuffed out by an airless chasm.  “I would have been curious if you had.” 

She blushed at that.  Of course he would not think she had done something so intimate.  And it _was_ intimate, she realized, as she watched the thin, vulnerable skin stretched over his neck, dotted with coarse hairs and bobbing as he swallowed.  She was mesmerized by the flesh that she would press sharp metal to, without him able to guide her hand, though letting her, all the same. Trusting her. 

She stopped that thought before it could gallop off into some sweet meadow of her dreams, the ones she had stopped having after she left Tarth. “I could cut you.” 

"You could cut me," he replied evenly.  "You could have let me fall from our horse. You could have let me eat a rotten piece of apple.  You could have turned me around and sent me back to King's Landing, none the wiser." 

Brienne sighed, fiddling with the bone handle of the razor. 

"This beard is itching, wench.  Get on with it." 

There was a pail and a strip of linen by Brienne's side.  The water was cool, but not as frigid as the morning air, and it loosened the soft ball of soap, sloughing off trails of suds and fogging the clear liquid.  With a quick rub of her wet fingers, she worked the lather between them and leaned over the large, cold gap separating their bodies, trembling hands reaching up to run the froth over the stubble along his cheek.  She tried to ignore the way the hairs softened beneath her touch, giving in to her pressure and molding against the smooth skin beneath. 

But it was only for a moment before Jaime hissed and jerked away from her. "Gods, your hands are like ice!" 

"Oh," she blushed, quickly dowsing them in the bucket. She tried to wipe away the suds on his face, hoping her touch would be warmer, but he cursed colourfully and laughed, the sound bright and welcoming, like a prism of colors against a dark, drenched sky.  

This time, though, instead of recoiling, he took her hand, cupping it between the rough, dry pads of his own.  He was only slightly warmer than she was and yet a burn coursed up her arm. "Give me your other hand," he demanded, gazing at nothing over her shoulder, tilting his head up as if to mimic looking at her.  Brienne wondered if he was trying to create her image in his mind’s eye. And how true that likeness would be. 

"That is unnecessary, ser." 

Jaime smiled at that.  "So are your courtesies, wench.  I won't let go of this one so you may as well give up the other." 

Still she hesitated.  Jaime had touched her before without request and she had touched him with necessity. But this was new. 

"Brienne. I've done more scandalous things to you than this." 

She slipped the fingers of her free hand between his palms, her mind racing and remembering, and as soon as he felt the change in pressure, he encased it inside his warming embrace.  Tugging her towards him, Jaime brought their hands up to his lips, opening a small gap for chilly air to rush in.  Before it could seep through her, though, it was quickly replaced by his searing breath as he blew inside his cupped hands. 

Brienne shivered at the sensation of sitting exposed in the wintry day, the cold and damp soaking into her clothes, while her hands were bundled in steaming warmth. Jaime's skin raked against her own as he rubbed their hands together and continued to wash her fingers in the comforting exhales from his chest. He was gradually pulling her closer now and she had shuffled forward on her knees until they bumped against his folded legs, her torso drawn towards his, enticed by the heat emanating from him. Still, he blew and caressed, dragging their hands nearer to his mouth. 

And then he was opening the cocoon of his fingers, bringing her cooling hands to his lips, dropping small kisses to the tips of them, dancing across each one with a simple press of his faintly puckered mouth before flitting on to the next. Brienne swallowed a gasp and forced herself to remain still, though her body urged her to pull away and reclaim the pieces that Jaime was tearing apart with his gentleness, his reverence, his touch. 

“Are you scared yet, Brienne?” he rumbled into her hands and she felt his lips form the words as he teased her.  “Angry with me? Mistrustful? Excited? If I could see your face, I would know. You’re so easy to read.” 

Brienne worked her mouth, trying to compel her body to respond to her commands. She did not want to sound like some vulnerable, shy maiden.  She had sparred with this man, after all.  He knew her power and her worth and it did not include courtship or seduction or whatever it was that caused knightly men to kiss a lady’s hand. “But you cannot see my face,” she reminded him, just as cool as the crisp breeze. 

He dropped her hands to his chest, though he kept them loosely held between his own. “Do you truly think that I will ever see again?” 

“Yes.” Brienne tried to put all of her hope in that single word, making it firm and sharp, as if speaking it aloud would make it come true. 

“Obstinate woman,” Jaime sighed.  He released her, leaving Brienne bereft and cold, to scrub a hand through his wild locks and she thought she may have to trim that as well.  As his calloused fingers escaped the strands of gold, he paused to scratch at this graying beard.  “And if I don’t? You will have to decide what you want, then.” 

 _I know what I want.  And yes. It makes me scared and angry and excited.  But I trust you._  

She spoke none of that, though.  Instead, she took back up the clump of soap and dipped it into the water again, careful to keep her warm hands from freezing in the liquid.  When she touched Jaime once more, he merely smiled and leaned slightly into the fingertips that rubbed foaming circles around his cheeks, close to his peaked nose, and along his strong jaw.  The tense muscle running under his masculine features jolted beneath her hand and his throat bobbed continuously as she lightly applied the soap down his neck. 

“I taught Tyrion to shave,” Jaime suddenly said when Brienne paused to rinse the suds from her fingers.  “Father taught me but when it was time for Tyrion, he ordered one of the servants to ‘remove the fuzz from the boy’.”  His tone became dark and deep as he mimicked his father with a sneer breaking the suds on his face. 

“I’ve watched my father being groomed by one of his men,” Brienne offered, not knowing what to say as she toyed with the spine of the razor. 

“A man has to be very trusting to let someone near his throat with a blade,” Jaime replied.  “If your brother had lived to be old enough, your father would have taught him to shave himself.” 

“At least you were there to show your brother.” 

“Yes.” The air around them chilled once more, wrapping them each in their own nightmares and regrets, dimming the pleasant morning, misting the world beyond their memories into something intangible and distant. 

With a puff of breath like an impatient horse, Jaime turned his face away from her and lifted his chin.  "Start at the ear and move down the cheek, following the direction of the hair. You'll notice it changes at my jaw and neck." 

Brienne lifted the razor and paused just before she touched the lathered skin below his temple.  She frowned. "How am I supposed to tell with all of the soap?" 

"You'll feel a resistance," Jaime replied.  He smiled into the air away from her.  "And then you will hear me curse and see me bleed." 

"Jaime." 

"Be careful of the cuts there already, wench.  I think that's what's making me itch." 

He had not moved much, waiting for her to begin, so Brienne finally brought the blade to his skin, keeping it at an angle so it did not slice into his already marked flesh.  Through the metal and handle she could feel his cheek curve under her pressure and the smooth gathering of the soap building along the razor.  With the gentle popping of the suds, she heard the snick of the coarse hairs snapping off Jaime's face.  And trailing behind it all was the revelation of silky golden skin. 

Jaime grunted and Brienne quickly snatched the razor back, expecting to see a bright bloom of crimson.  "Shorter strokes," he rasped.  "Wash the blade." 

She dunked the soapy razor into the pail and went back to start a new, smaller line on Jaime's cheek.  As she worked, pausing to rinse, she became consumed by the skin she was exposing, feeling like she was undressing him in some way. 

Without thought, she placed her hand on his shoulder to steady herself while she leaned in closer to inspect her work, hardly taking note of the way he shook as she touched him.  Other than the subtle tremors working away from her touch, like ripples in a pond, Jaime was rigid, not even moving as she put more of her weight on him, hardly flinching when she touched him without warning with the blade.  There was simply the shallow and rapid rise and fall of his chest as he breathed heavily through his nose. 

She worked in silence, slowly moving along both cheeks, until Jaime shattered the droning calm of her movements.  “I think you can handle above my lip now.” 

She frowned at the small strip of skin below his flaring nostrils and atop the soft flesh of his mouth.  Jaime rolled his lip over his teeth, stretching the skin to make it easier and Brienne would have laughed at how silly he looked if she were not trying to maintain her concentration.  With the precision of the slices, she had to cup his jaw to keep his head from bobbing too much and was now so close, his breath stirred the soft hairs on her cheeks. She tried not to think much of it, but with his half lidded eyes, she had a sudden thought of watching him sleep next to her, not at arm’s length, as they had been.  And not on the ground. 

But the notion was fleeting and Brienne set back to her task. It was quick, and surprisingly easy, to slide between nose and mouth and she was proud of her steady hand. But Jaime made no note of appreciation as he released his upper lip to bite down and suck in the lower one, motioning for her to shave his chin next.  She huffed a bit in annoyance, frustrated at the sight of Jaime’s plump lip trapped between his white teeth, glistening faintly from his tongue’s movements, and how it sent sparks down her belly. 

“Get on with it, Brienne,” Jaime urged after a pause.  “I can’t take much more.” 

She was worried she had cut him or that he was sitting uncomfortably. She realized his hands were balled into fists in his lap, knuckles white and veins straining beneath the thin skin. But besides his fight for restraint, he did not seem to be injured. 

“What have I done?” she demanded. 

“Nothing,” Jaime breathed.  “Just… hurry.” 

With confused urgency, Brienne followed the grains of hair down his chin as quickly as she could.  Silently, Jaime lifted his head further so she could see the stubble that was dotting down his neck. This was more difficult, since his skin shifted beneath her touch and his throat bobbed erratically as she tried to stretch it with her fingers. 

“Must you swallow so much?” she finally grumbled. 

“Must you touch me so much?” Jaime snapped back.  Brienne blushed, snatching the fingers that had begun to snake towards his hair and pulling the blade away now that he was fidgeting. “Don’t.  I only have so much chivalry, with your hands all over me, wench.” 

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you were looking at me,” Brienne growled. She had missed his teasing, but something had changed in the days since he’d lost his sight, something had broken free and flown loose, his provocation becoming wilder, tantalizing, a firefly flitting about her fingers, ready to be caught. 

“Maybe you’re the one that’s blind, Brienne,” Jaime breathed out laughter, but he did not smile. 

With a sigh, she gathered more lather from the pad of soap and applied it around Jaime’s neck.  He remained still as she worked, both of them feeling the slight tremor of her hand as she gave the lightest pressure to the blade.  Her breaths stopped every time it caught and skidded across the rigid skin and exhaled again when it would slide smoothly once more, with no trail of blood following. 

Finally, thankfully, the last bit of beard was gone and swirling with the other fine strands of gold and silver floating in the murky water and winking in the dappled sunlight.  Brienne dipped the linen in the now cooled liquid and set about wiping the remaining smudges of soap from along his face and neck.  She surveyed the velvety, tanned skin, contrasting with the bright golden locks that framed his cheeks and throat.  He looked younger, she thought, less marred, in a way, despite a deep scratch running the line of one side of his jaw and a welt above his collar. She had never seen him without a beard or stubble and was caught up in how his skin stretched when he smiled and the throbbing pulse along his jaw as he clenched his teeth and ran his hand along a smooth cheek. 

“Not bad for your first try, wench,” he said as he continued to inspect every new bit of exposed flesh. 

“I won’t have many more tries.  You’ll be cold in the North.  You’ll want the beard again.” 

“I suppose I will.  At least these scratches will have healed enough that it won’t feel like there are hundreds of insect stings all along my face,” he replied, tracing the wound with a rough fingertip. “You may has well inspect your work before it grows back then.” 

Brienne blinked.  “What?” 

“Come on now.” Jaime stuck out his neck, turning his head to give her his cheek, his earlier teasing tone almost having completely disappeared into seriousness.  “Is it smooth?” 

“Wh-what does that ma-matter?” 

The plane of Jaime’s face, the soft wrap of his skin over the swells and dips of the strong bones beneath, enthralled Brienne.  Her fingers twitched, called by the gentle new part of Jaime she had never touched before.  

Captivated and hidden in Jaime’s darkness, Brienne allowed herself to reach out, gathering courage from behind the shroud of his vacant green gaze. And when her hard, cracked fingertips brushed the smooth expanse of his cheek, they both let out puffs of humid air into the cool morning.  The feel reminded Brienne of her childhood, when she ventured to the tide pools on Tarth during the chilled days.  She would gather stones smoothed by crushing waves and run her thumbs along their surfaces, feeling the warmth nestled beneath the layer exposed to the crisp, salty breeze. She would skip the rounded ones across the pools, watching the water burst and shimmer, ripples edging out from the contact.  And as she ran her fingers along Jaime’s cheek, she watched the undulations of his skin as his muscles tensed and fanned under her touch. 

“Brienne,” he sighed, her name a halting plea in his throat, like a parched cry for water. 

But her touch did not lift the fog of his gaze, waking him from his guilt and from the black.  They sat alone and yet they were surrounded, the traces of his sister, his father, his brother, his white cloak lingering like the curls of smoke from a quenched fire. They wrapped around them just as tightly as the sounds of the horses, the high voices of their wards, the thundering quake of the men.  And trapping Brienne most was the fear that Jaime had forgotten the rest, that he needed to ignore who she was and what she looked like, to drown himself in something painless, despite the palpable torture that she herself had suffered from in his touch and his blindness. 

“We should start out if we want to make it to the end of the forest by nightfall,” Jaime said.  She let her fingers drop, watching him turn away from her and run his hand up the path she had traipsed along his skin.  “Not that I will know the difference.” 

“I will,” Brienne replied. 

As easy as breath, Jaime unfolded his legs and pushed himself up, Brienne’s hands hovering around his shoulders and arms until he wobbled as he straightened and she closed the distance, gripping his arms and stepping towards him to brace them both.  And he just smiled, though it was a small and distant thing, a simple recognition of their continual game, him trying to settle into his world before he was jolted out of it and her, being there to catch him.  Brienne wondered fleetingly if this was to be their existence, separated by light and dark, too dependent on one another to know anything else.  Because, Brienne realized as she slid one hand to the crook of his elbow and held on, using her side to guide him to her hip, she may not need him for sight, but only when he was with her did Brienne truly see. But he was still just a murky shadow, flitting and teasing at the edges of her vision, daring her to try to catch him. 

They walked back towards the acolyte’s cabin wrapped in their own silence, Brienne’s fingers still burning from the rub of Jaime’s beard, warring with the memory of the caress of his soft jaw, the dualities of the man strolling by her shoulder setting her to spark and cinder.  But their individual thoughts were ruptured by the bustle of the party as they went about gathering their packs and preparing the horses while Tanford hobbled between, offering them more supplies as Ser Addam grudgingly gave him more coin.  

Dacey left where Arya was carefully buckling the straps of their gentle mare’s bridle to greet them.  Her dark hair was plaited, much like Sansa’s own, making her look pretty in her dented light armor and worn, loose breaches and tunic.  The fresh air had reddened her cheeks to a hue like a soft sunset and blossomed her pert mouth like a rose.  Brienne knew her own face must have looked raw from the cold, her lips flaking like a burn and nose as red as a crab.  Despite that, Dacey squinted up at her and smiled.  

She was about to speak when Clegane lumbered by, easily caring two packs in one hand while he hefted his large saddle in the other.  With a twisted grin, he raked his steel gaze over Jaime and then to Brienne.  “Looks like you tried shaving yourself, Kingslayer,” the burned man rasped out a laugh. “You’re lucky you came back with a head from the looks of it.  Unlike your brother.” 

Brienne snatched at Jaime just as he took his first steps towards Clegane’s voice, though he was not moving closer to where the Hound now stood with his warhorse.  Surprisingly, Dacey also placed a warning touch on Jaime’s shoulder, which he jerked away from. 

“What in the hells put him in such a good mood?” Jaime snarled. 

“I’ve asked him to allow Lady Sansa to ride with him,” Dacey replied, looking down like she could not bear to meet Brienne’s surprised expression. 

“You don’t want that dog sniffing around the girl,” Jaime said before Brienne could even form the words around her tripping tongue.  “Why not keep her with Hasty?” 

Dacey curled her lip, though it did no good against Jaime. “You’ve never been to Greywater,” she snapped.  “Though I know Howland Reed will help us, it is a dangerous place and it’s always changing. I have no idea what we will come across or if they will let us find them easily.  Lady Sansa needs to be protected and Ser Bonifer is too old. Clegane is brutal and even should he fall, that beast of a horse will not let anyone near her.” 

Brienne watched as the young maiden approached Clegane’s stallion, Stranger, the girl and the horse eyeing each other with gazes wide with white. Lady Sansa perched herself on the edge of a rock, where she played with the laces of the breeches borrowed from Peck while she stole glances at the Hound, who kept her in his periphery, securing their packs.  Even at a safe distance to flee as she was, she was already much closer to Stranger than anyone else had gotten.  Tyrek had unknowingly scampered within the same space and was still rubbing at his backside where the horse had bit him before he had wrenched away.  The stallion and its master may indeed be sufficient protection for Lady Sansa, but Brienne was more concerned with who would keep the heir safe from her shields. 

“We could have her ride with Ser Addam,” Brienne suggested. 

Dacey shook her head, sending her braid wiping against her back. “She is still not trusting of the Lannisters.  And the crannogmen do not favor knights and lords.  They may see Clegane as less of a threat, despite his size.” 

Jaime snorted.  “Has he shrunk since I went blind? What kind of people would be less worried about the Hound than Addam?” 

“You will find out soon enough, _Ser_ Jaime,” Dacey retorted with a raise of her fine, dark brows.

  

 

 _You will find out._  

The nights in which they traveled blurred together, swirling into waking and riding, eating and resting, sleeping just to make the next evening come sooner. The landscape, once they had left the cover of the woods, was much the same, only helping to turn the arcing of the moon into an endless, innumerable circle.  They followed the Green Fork northwards, picking their way through the short grasses beside the shore, where the terrain broke apart with pebbles before dipping into the deep, churning waters.  The bubbling of the current skipping against the stones lulled Brienne as she rode with the others.  The reflection of the hazy moonlight shattering along the river, sending sparkling illumination from above and below, made Brienne feel like she was dreaming every night that they wordlessly traveled. 

But her real dreams were far more curious than the small expanse of plains and water that she could see from under the glow of the stars.  Each dawn that she laid beside Jaime, to rest before her turn at watch, she knew what was waiting behind her eyelids.  She was back in the swamps, but this time, King Renly’s tent was nowhere in sight and Jaime was not with her.  She was alone in the murky swirl of putrid greens and misty browns, tumbling and entwining together to trace shadows of tall trees and uneven, mossy earth that sunk into hidden pools.  And through the thin, narrow branches was a shifting, dark mass towering above her. 

 _You will find out._  

The words called to her whether she was sleeping or awake but they were no longer the dancing, lilting voice of Dacey, but wispy and humming, like the deep moan of branches straining against the wind.  She did not recognize it, no matter how long she tried to sift through her memories to pull out the man behind the sound.  It was something new, something that belonged inside the dream, fitting between the churn of water and the dance of leaves.  But it had leaked out, whispering to her as she rode, murmuring as she helped Jaime dress, hissing while she guarded their daily camp and kept a keen eye on the surroundings. 

She had hoped to drown it out amongst the rest of the party, but they appeared to be as haunted and silent as she was, withdrawn with their own voices. Lady Sansa held her sister close when they dismounted every morning, quickly scampering from Stranger’s reach so that Lady Arya could come to her.  The squires, Tyrek and Peck, fumbled with even their light armor and Brienne had been forced to rouse Peck when he had simply stopped unbuckling her pauldron to stare into the distance, looking almost as blind as Jaime.  And the men had taken to staying close to the others, Clegane and Ser Bonifer sniffing around the Starks like guard dogs, while Ser Addam circled the camp, rarely remaining still until Dacey told him to stop. 

And Jaime.  He hardly spoke and could not even be incited to throw a barb at the Hound or toss over a comment that would make Brienne blush from nose to knees.  He seemed the most lost of them all, sinking into his darkness. But then he would stir as they sat and ate or as they were settling to sleep and he would reach out to touch her. It was a light and simple brush of fingers against her hair or shoulder or the sensitive skin tucked inside her wrist.  And then he would seem satisfied and slip away again. 

When they could see the looming dome of the swamps hiding Greywater Watch, Jaime finally spoke up one evening as they were packing to continue on. “They could easily take my head as soon as we enter.” 

Brienne stopped shoving their blankets into her bag to look at him in the waning light.  His beard was a sharp prick of coarse hairs that singed her skin when she would unintentionally rub against it while helping him don his tunic.  But he seldom scratched at it now, taking to scrubbing his dirty fingers through the golden locks that still twisted and curled perfectly around his ears and jaw and close to kissing his shoulders.  He did it now and Brienne turned away from the roll of her stomach. “They are loyal to the Starks. Lady Sansa and Lady Arya will protect you.” 

Jaime snorted at that and, even though he could not know it, he turned to the forest. 

“Is the infamous Kingslayer frightened?” she demanded. 

“Of course not, wench,” Jaime laughed mirthlessly.  “I have two little girls to care for me.” 

Brienne frowned.  “I will do so as well.” _I have been doing so_. 

“You cannot stop the crannogmen.  They know that swamp and they can easily pick us all off.  But I will be their primary target.  I have the Starks and I must look like their captor. My family has killed the rest of them, after all.  And I’ve personally crippled one.” 

“Lady Sansa will explain,” Brienne persisted.  She moved closer to Jaime, just enough that he could find her, if he wanted to.  “We will fight if we must.” 

“No, Brienne, damn it,” Jaime snarled.  “I’m trying to tell you _not_ to do anything.  I’m not Renly. I’m not Catelyn. I don’t want you to put your life down for mine.” 

Brienne could not reply.  She had sworn no oath to Jaime.  Indeed, by promising to protect the Starks, she was claiming his family as her own enemy. There was no reason to explain why she would risk herself for him, especially since her concern should only be for the heir to the North.  Yet, she would. And Jaime knew it, though he assumed it was simply some instinct that sparked with anyone in danger. She could not tell him the truth, as she did not want to search for it herself. 

“You cannot brush this aside,” Jaime continued with greater vehemence. “You know I am of no importance now. But those girls need to make it home. And you are committed to that.” 

“And you are committed to nothing,” Brienne spat back.  She stomped away, grabbing her pack and trying to calm her hands enough to strap it to the saddle.  “What is left of life without your _family_ and your sight? You are just _waiting_ for death.” 

“So says the woman that has tried to throw herself on her sword for _two_ doomed, foolish nobles.  _I’m_ not the one searching for the Stranger.  Despite the things I’ve done for others, I’ve still managed to keep my head.  Unlike them.” 

Brienne pulled too tightly at the buckles, causing the horse to send up a whicker of discomfort, her trembling fingers in no state to soothe. “And now you want to punish yourself by dying.  I’ve had to continue on, to find purpose after my failings.  So can you.” 

“Seven hells, wench, but you are infuriating,” Jaime huffed. “When did this become about me? I’m telling you if it’s between me and the Starks, chose the Starks, as you always have.” 

“I will not make that choice,” Brienne replied.  “And I will not discuss your death.” 

“No. You won’t discuss anything. I’m sure you’d prefer to be the blind one, since you could hide from everyone else around you. And maybe then you would have a better reason for why you ignore why I follow you like a fool.” 

Jaime turned, stepping high to walk through tall grasses that were not there. Eventually, he made enough noise to attract Tyrek, who came to help Jaime join the other men before Brienne could step in and bring him back to her.  It was better that way. 

_You will find out._

 

  

They decided to enter the swamp at dawn.  It crept up on them, though, the Green Fork slowly dipping and fanning out in shallow pools that the horses suddenly splashed through, spooking them and their riders.  A humid fog sloshed just above the wet, giving earth and the growing puddles, masking the terrain beneath and dragging their pace while they strained to find hard ground. It seemed like the forest, which had appeared to contain the murky bog like a cage of smooth, wide trunks, was weeping out the mist within, saturating and transforming the plains circling its fortress like a moat.  

And with it came a smell that crinkled Brienne’s nose.  Beneath the green and damp was the pungent decay floating out from the swamp.  It clung just as thickly as the heat that dulled and pushed at the crisp winter morning and made Brienne feel sweat bursting from her forehead and beading down her neck. 

Jaime held her more tightly when they finally found a path to wind down, the fog continuing to bite at the horse’s hooves.  From the thickness, fat, towering trees burst up, naked, smooth trunks rising above them until long, thin branches began sprouting out, laced with flat leaves that wove together, effectively tinting and blurring the sunlight.  Amongst the pools hidden under moss, melting seamlessly with the green, spongy dirt, were plumes of shrubs and ferns, rustling though there was no breeze, the sound as unsettling as the soft plunk of a disturbed nearby mire, despite nothing having fallen or tumbled into the water. 

There was not the buzz of insects, nor the flutter of birds, only the squelching of each sinking step into the fen.  The sounds they heard were too unnatural, while those Brienne expected to find felt as if to have never existed in such a world as they had willingly entered. But what frightened her most was the familiarity of it all.  She had been there before.  Every time she slept. 

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered, his name echoing against the mist and the trees, bouncing back at her like arrows.  “Why did you bring up being attacked before?” 

He grunted softly in her ear.  “Worried, wench? Suddenly the protection of a young maiden doesn’t seem so helpful, does it?” 

“That’s not why you spoke up,” Brienne replied.  She knew he must have dreamed but she needed him to say it, to form words around what had seeped into their reveries. 

 _Could it be the red woman? Has she come after the ones that survived King Renly? Is the shadow here?_  

Brienne shivered and leaned back into Jaime’s chest. 

“There,” Ser Addam quietly murmured.  He pointed off to the side where a green mass slipped behind a tree. 

“They’ve already shown themselves,” Dacey said.  “It seems they will not make us hunt.” 

“Ah, so a quick death, then,” Jaime snorted. 

Peck squeaked a bit at that.  “Se-ser?” 

Brienne was ignoring them, scanning what little she could make out through the fog and the sheen of sweat obscuring her vision.  Finally, she saw a small shape leap from the knee of a root into a pile of ferns.  “Another.” 

“Follow them,” Dacey said.  While the rest hesitated, she clicked her tongue to start her mount and her and Lady Arya proceeded off towards the fern where the figure had disappeared. 

They followed, Clegane and Lady Sansa close behind and Brienne keeping near her wards.  Just as they reached the lush leaves, Tyrek shouted to their right and another blur whipped by their vision.  Brienne realized they were difficult to discern not only for their short stature, but for the bark and brush that seemed to cover them from head to foot. 

It proceeded on like that, what Brienne assumed was the crannogmen leading them deeper into the dome of forest.  The trees grew taller and their canopy thicker so that the sunlight struggled to reach them amidst the mass of leaves and the obstacle of branches and fog that absorbed the escaping rays.  It became more difficult to discern the flitting shadows of their guides with the darkness closing in on them. 

“How far are we, Brienne?” Jaime asked in her ear.  “We should be close to the middle.” 

Brienne frowned, looking up to gauge their distance.  “Yes.  Maybe. How do you know?” 

He blew her hair out as he huffed his annoyance.  “I don’t,” he grumbled.  “At least, I shouldn’t.  This place…” 

“Yes,” Brienne sighed.  She noticed a murky green mass hovering in the fog before them and the dark pillars of trunks that had dotted their path were now giving it wide berth. Yet it felt like she was back in her dreams, where everything was simply a haze that never focused, try as she might to stare at it.  “This place.” 

“What is that?” Lady Arya asked, leaning forward in the saddle and squinting up. 

“If I had to guess, I’d say it’s the fucking castle we’ve been looking for,” the Hound snarled. 

Though it was nothing more than a wall, which the mist swirled and beat against, crashing in growing waves, there were no longer any figures emerging from the swamp to entice them on.  This was the end of their journey. 

Dacey moved her horse forward tentatively until the sound of hooves splashing and squelching through one of the pools tumbled through the clammy air. She stopped and turned the reins so that she could follow the expanse of the shore, testing how broad it was, but soon she had traveled far enough that she was becoming swallowed up in the mist and Brienne had to follow her to keep her in sight. 

As she neared the water, though, the fog parted, breaking up in puffs and rolls, falling suddenly above the skim of foliage and dispersing out to thicken and hover at the edge of the trees.  Through the dim light and the retreating haze, Brienne saw a mat of reeds and moss floating towards them, easily splitting the layer of algae on the pool with the wide expanse of it.  She could not see its end on either side, nor hardly even its middle as ferns and thin, young trees dotted the bulky terrain of what appeared to be a moving island. But far back, and rising above it all, was a fortress of logs and mud, massive joists and thick rope creating walls and towers.  Branches and the thinnest, widest stones were sealed together and sloped to form conical roofs and sheltered walkways between. 

Even with Brienne’s little knowledge of building, she could see how expertly Greywater Watch was constructed, formed with only the lightest, sturdiest materials, relying as much on its concealment for protection as it buttresses and turrets.  But it was more than simply a castle amongst the swamp.  It was a living thing, vines and moss clawing up the partitions and dipping into the open windows, turning the warm light from within into a dancing green, reminding Brienne of the fire that would spark behind Jaime’s emerald gaze. 

It seemed the heat from the fires burning within the castle, a curious thing to do amongst all that wood, heated the steaming air even more. Though the fresh scent of the new growth clambering along the reeds and piling up the walls drowned out the perfume of rot, the stifling, dense air made it difficult for Brienne to smell anything, even the horse beneath her and Jaime’s breath on her neck. It made her feel even more detached from this truth, the knowledge that she was definitely awake, since she was devoid of some of her senses.  She wondered if Jaime constantly fought for that recognition of what was real and what was in his mind now. 

“What’s going on?” he muttered. 

“There’s a-a stronghold,” Brienne replied, careful not to disturb the tepid quiet. “On a raft of vegetation. Just…floating.” 

“Seven hells.” 

Seemingly called by their voices, two forms approached from either side of the island, dragging long poles swirling through the water.  They were indeed smaller in stature, but it was difficult to determine their actual size hidden under long cloaks piled with leaves and twigs that allowed them to hide amongst the water and trees of the swamp. But there was something about how they approached, erect and confident, easily picking their way along the raft, barely correcting their balance as it bobbed and swayed, that made them seem as giant lords, looking down to the ants that scuttled and bumped into each other as they sought out a path.  Brienne was very aware that the party had encroached upon their land and should they choose, she and the others might never leave the forest again. 

“There are crannogmen coming,” she told Jaime. 

Jaime grunted.  “They’ve already been here.  You’ve only seen a few. But there have been more.” 

She did not bother asking how he could know.  There was something about this place, as they were realizing. But Jaime seemed to have known well before. 

And though he had been keeping close to her cheek, he turned away from her suddenly, tilting his stubbled chin and squinting his eyes, as if he could make out something, anything, if he just tried a bit harder.  Brienne looked back towards the castle and the two forms in time to see that Jaime was close to gazing right at another figure emerging from the middle of the island.  It was taller than the others and instead of carrying a pole to push through the pool, a large forked staffed lifted and tapped forward and back with the progress of the being. But it was dressed similarly, its hood pulled up to hide a face in shadows and fog.

Brienne could not help but gasp at the shift in the air. With this new presence the smells that had been choked out by the humidity came rushing in, new life and slow putrefaction, and the sounds of leaves whispering in the growing breeze, insects chirping and buzzing like a crescendo, frogs groaning a deep beat, and birds fluttering sporadically as they hunted and alighted between the trees.  The fog seemed to clear enough that Brienne did not feel so much like she was drowning in the mire, opening her eyes to peer through the cloudy water.  Now it was all sharp and harsh, deep shadows contrasting with bright reflections.  Even Jaime blinked near her. 

As the others moved their mounts closer, forming a protective circle around the Starks and the shore, the figure approached the edge of the island and threw back the hood, revealing a man older than Jaime, though Brienne could not decide how much.  His body was rigid, but there was little muscle left beneath skin and bone and his beard was gray and unkempt, just like his tumble of wild curls that crashed against his shoulders. His skin, though pale, was still tight, other than the webs along his forehead and snaking beside his temples. But his eyes were what drew Brienne. They were a bright green, like the color of the leaves above them when pierced with afternoon sunlight, and they were young, yet held a knowing that surpassed any life of man. 

Those eyes turned directly on to Brienne.  She tried desperately to keep his gaze and ignore how Jaime reached up to grasp her arms and pull her towards him.  The man did not look away, though.  And he parted his lips, cracked and thin.  Out rushed the voice that had been in her head, daring her to place it, never knowing she had not heard it except for this moment.  In waking, it was everywhere, in the snatch of branches, the creak of the island, the stamp of the horse’s hoof.  But it was still inside her head as well. 

“It’s time to find out, Brienne of Tarth.”       


	21. The Swamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed their holidays! It's a new year and I hope this kicks off another level for this story. I'm excited to know what you all think. And I want to thank each person reading and commenting for making last year so much brighter for me! I hope this fanfiction gave you a little slice of entertainment and distraction from life.
> 
> I want to take a moment for poor Coraleeveritas. She truly has a challenge on her hands with me. But she is so kind and patient with constantly teaching me and I'm so eager and excited to learn from her as I face one of my greatest writing challenges. Thank you, Coralee, for not only being talented and kind, but for also making this a wonderful experience. Hands, head, and heart!
> 
> And thank you to SandwichesYumYum. I selfishly want her to focus on her own writing, but she always takes the time to eagerly read over these chapters and it makes me feel so special and confident when posting. Thank you!

“We finally meet, Jaime Lannister,” a voice boomed from the darkness. 

There had been heat against Jaime’s eyes before, bright shadows, like seeing the sun pierce through his eyelids, green and washed, as if he could look up and find the leaves blurring and tinting the light.  It was disconcerting against the dark smells that attacked his nostrils.  He snorted and huffed frequently to dispel the scent of humid life, thick with heat and rot. Yet still it had wrapped around him, along with the throbbing reverberations of frogs and insects, plunking pools, and heavy breezes.  They blinded his other senses so that he could do nothing but cling to Brienne and feel her pulse echo through the dense air between her neck and his cheek. 

She gasped now at the sound of this new presence.  “How does he know my name?” she asked. 

 _Her name?_  

And then Jamie realized that the noises and smells had continued to batter at his sensitive and straining ears and nose, even while the voice had called to him.  It had clanged inside his head, rattling about and knocking off other sensations, dusty and worn from his past.  He could scent the sharp sting of steel, almost tasting the metal on his tongue, and the crisp slice of winter, cutting through the hot, moist air that clung forebodingly to the swamp. He heard the clash of swords and the haunting mad laughter, felt the dawn kiss his shoulders, turning a boy into a knight. 

But the wind suddenly dried, carrying with it red dust that swelled in his nose. The tang of metal turned to blood, pooling in his mouth, sliding down his throat as he swallowed hard. His memories, and those that he had never possessed, swirled together, youth and knowing, twisted in his belly. 

“You remind me of him,” came the voice.  “Though you bend much easier.” 

There was no need to ask whom was being referred to.  The recollections of his knighting under the sword of Arthur Dayne was as fresh for him as the touch of Brienne’s skin, but had turned as bitter in his mouth as his brother’s name.  And though he had not been there, torn asunder and used for unneeded kindling of wildfire, he knew the taste of his mentor’s death. And there was no doubt that these senses came to him because Howland Reed stood before him, mocking and sure in his sight and in his swamp. 

Jaime had not wanted to concern Brienne with his connection to the man they were going to beg for bread and salt, but he was well aware that he could be thrown into a dungeon as quickly as Ser Dayne’s blood had washed the rocky earth before the Tower of Joy.  And he was just as sure that he would do nothing but defend the knight that had been the last image of right and pure, before Jaime had fallen to darkness under the sweet caresses and giving flesh of Cersei. 

He tightened his hold on Brienne, feeling Reed’s glare, but uncaring, as he drowned out the scents of unknown territory in the musk and sweat of her.   And, for her part, she let him. 

“Lord Reed,” Dacey called from their left.  “As a daughter of House Mormont, I greet you.” 

“Here you stand, indeed,” he replied.  “And not alone.” 

“No, my Lord,” Sansa spoke up next.  Jaime heard her voice carry high and imagined her fighting to keep it from shaking out her trembling throat, tilting her chin in defiance of her own uncertainty. “I am-“ 

“I know who you are, Lady Sansa.  Despite missing your births, I could not mistake the children of my friend, and liege lord, and his lovely wife.” 

“And I thank you for your loyalty to our family.” 

“I suppose these days it demands gratitude.” Howland Reed scraped his mouth with a grunt and spat out a thick wad of fluid, the sound followed by a plop in the water.  “The Freys were never to be trusted.” 

“Yes…” Sansa tentatively began, unaware of the trap she was stepping into beneath the vibrant and soft mire. 

He plowed.  “But then, I would say the same about lions and dogs.” 

“As would I,” Dacey quickly interjected.  “But these men have saved the lives of Lady Sansa and Lady Arya and they have sworn no harm to them.” 

“Oaths are fleeting things to men like the Kingslayer.” 

Jaime ground his teeth and felt Brienne stir, sensing he was about to pounce. “I see no kings here, so we may all breathe easier.” 

“Lord Reed,” Sansa hastily offered.  “We have traveled far and with much danger.  My companions have brought me and my sister safely here and now we beg your protection.” 

There was a sigh that sounded like the drag of branches against stone. “You will always have the security of Greywater Watch, my Lady.  And I shall give you my faith and trust.  You and your… _men_ may enter.” 

There was shuffling as Brienne led their horse forward and to the side. Jaime could feel the press of the other mounts as the hooves sank and squished in the rich earth before suddenly stamping on hard ground, the hollow echo of reeds underfoot making a chorus of tight drum beats.  As they rode along, now bouncing hard against the soft leather of the saddle, jolted by the push back of the path beneath, the sensation of eyes on them followed the group.  It was like the slow lighting of fireflies sparking as the sun set and night blanketed the realm. 

“He knows who you are, Jaime,” Brienne finally hissed. 

“I have a recognizable face.” He knew where she was slowly dragging their discussion, about to bring it round to the dark corner of a tavern to beat it raw, but he needed her to focus for him.  “What do you see?” 

“We’re on the island.  It’s already moving again...But how? It’s so big.  We haven’t even reached the castle yet.” 

“It’s best not to think too much on the abilities of the crannogmen. Where is Reed?” 

Brienne huffed.  “You aren’t telling me something.” 

“I tell you many things,” he snapped, annoyed by the suggestion that he had held himself back.  Not from her. Not when she had seen his nightmares, his treasures, his pain.  It was she that still hid herself.  “You just chose not to listen.” 

“This is not the time for your teasing, Jaime.  Are we in danger?” 

“You’re not.  Now, answer me.” 

“Lord Reed is walking beside Stranger,” she paused.  “Oh.  He’s petting him. I-I did not think that horse would let anyone but Clegane near him.” 

“He’s showing us what he can do.” 

“And what is that, tame a beast? You seem to know much of a man that has never left the swamp.” 

He recalled the news, the ravens that had been sent by the envoys that had been dispatched to find the members of the Kingsguard.  _Dead.  All dead_.  And Eddard Stark and Howland Reed had somehow escaped, dragging stones of the tower through the desert of Dorne.  “He left before.” 

 _And everything changed._  

Brienne chose not to respond to that, though he could feel frustration roll off her tense shoulders like the fog that clung to the bed of the swamp and dampened his ankles.  Instead, she spoke of the young growth building a forest around the castle they were approaching. She mentioned the shadows that stirred the branches and grasses and darkened the lit windows of the fortress. More crannogmen were appearing, small and hooded, helping to lead their horses and preparing their way. And still Howland Reed hovered near Lady Sansa, apparently to the distaste of Clegane, ignoring the rest of their party, including the youngest Stark.  But, as Brienne told Jaime, when he spoke, both Sansa and the Hound, grudgingly, gave replies. 

Jaime listened silently, ignoring the pauses in which she hoped he would fill them while she struggled to ask what she truly wanted to, to speak of what he had made plain before they entered the swamp.  But the spaces simply hung heavy and dense, too full already to hold on to anything either could say.  They needed to be wrung out, to be washed of all their thoughts and fears. But neither he nor the wench would spare their hands to release the bloat of it all. Brienne needed hers free for her sword and Jaime would selfishly not give up his new freedom to reach out to touch her. 

It was for this allowance that he did not tell her of his dreams. Each night he had been plagued with his brother calling to him, condemning him, pulling at him with small claws and sharp teeth and every time Brienne was there, standing, waiting, watching with sad blue eyes that were their own torture.  He was being torn apart, drawn to the calm of death, the promise of the end of it all, and the desire to live, to find what he had wanted since he was an innocent boy.  It was a familiar taste, one that he had sipped every time he went into battle and returned to every time his blood still filled his body and fueled his heart. But now he felt like he was edging towards the precipice and he would tumble soon, one direction or the other. 

“We’re here,” Brienne murmured, breaking through the haze of his thoughts, yanking him, as she had been doing, from his own mire in his mind. 

“Tell me.” 

“There’s a gate and a two doors,” she started.  “We can only fit one abreast.  I don’t see stables, but there’s dogs and-and pigs.” 

“People, wench,” Jaime sighed.  “What about crannogmen?” 

She tilted her head, he noticed, up and back so she was leaning in to him. “There are hallways and tunnels, towers and breezeways.  They are everywhere above.  Men and just as many women. A few children. But, it feels…empty.” 

“Your Mormont woman mentioned that Robb sent a letter to Howland Reed,” Jaime replied.  “Was it a call to war?” 

After a breath of hesitation, Brienne nodded.  “It was a plea for his help in ensuring the future of the Starks and the North.  But that’s all I know.” 

Jaime grunted his disbelief at that.  “Then it seems if Greywater Watch is empty, the crannogmen have answered the call.” He leaned a bit closer to disturb the hair he knew would be in front of Brienne’s ear, noticing the slightest tremor as he dared her to react to his breath kissing her jaw.  “Remember what I told you about doing foolish things.  Those female pups come first.” 

 _Let me die. Let us all die. But save yourself. Hold tight to the purity left and give them hope.  If that means the Starks survive, to keep you safe, then so be it._  

“I know my duty, Jaime,” she snarled back and for a moment, he wondered who were really the wolves.  Or perhaps, she was more like a lion. 

“Good. I know mine, as well.” 

 _I will make it right, Tyrion._  

A tap on his boot startled him and even Brienne flinched. “I will help you down,” a soft, young voice said. 

“Thank you, but I can assist him,” Brienne replied. 

“Your pardons, Lady Brienne,” Howland Reed interrupted. He sounded far away, most likely still near wherever Sansa was.  “We must show the men and women their quarters separately.” 

Jaime felt Brienne shift and easily slip off their mount.  She hardly ever stumbled or got tangled up in him anymore, with her awkward descent from the front of the saddle.  It made him wonder how many times they had done this already, clambering onto the horse together and sliding off like a dance or a parry, one always finding and catching the other.  It was all smooth and clean now, after the times they had ended up bound around each other.  “Then, please, show us, Lord Reed,” she said.  Jaime did not hesitate to swing his leg over when he heard her land, anticipating her hand catching his calf and leaving to move up to his arm to steady him as he hit the earth. 

He could only imagine Reed watching them, feeling his gaze gambol curiously between the two as Brienne held the crook of Jaime’s elbow still. He should move away. Clearly she had forgotten how it would seem for a maiden to be on the arm of the Kingslayer, needing to lead him or no.  But Jaime was still not a good man.  He reached up to touch a finger of his own to the ones wrapped around his arm. 

“Dacey!” An older woman called suddenly.  There was a flutter of skirts as someone rushed along the leaves and grass. 

“Mother,” Dacey happily replied, her own feet starting as she moved forward. 

Jaime groaned.  “Another Mormont.”    

“Oh, when we heard about the Twins, I had thought for sure you had died with the others,” came the choked response, muffled most likely by her daughter’s shoulder. “I was ready to go after them all, to avenge you and King Robb and oh- _Lady Catelyn_ , but Lord Reed assured me you would be safe, that you would come here.” 

Jaime frowned and felt Brienne’s fingers twitch and squeeze his hand. 

“Brienne and I fought, Mother,” Dacey said proudly.  “But we wouldn’t have survived if Ser Jaime had not come to take us out.” 

“Yes.” The word dripped with disdain and curiosity.  “It seems Lord Reed was aware of _all_ the circumstances.” 

Jaime wanted to ask if Brienne was blushing, but he knew she was. He could feel the heat sloughing off her like layers of snow falling during the melt.  It licked its way down to her hand and burned through Jaime’s sleeves to coat his skin.  She was surely reddening, but the question flicking his tongue against his teeth was if she truly understood _why_. 

“Come,” Maege Mormont continued.  “Lady Sansa and Lady Arya must be exhausted from their ordeals.  They should rest and then speak with their council here. We have not been stationary during this time, I hope you will be pleased to hear, my Lady.” 

“Yes, Lady Mormont,” Sansa said.  “I am eager to talk with you and Lord Reed.” 

“Wench,” Jaime leaned to the side to quickly hiss at Brienne. “Find out what’s going on.” 

“Lady Brienne,” the Lady of Bear Island beckoned. 

“Don’t let them shut you out,” he pressed.  “Remember who you are.” 

Brienne sighed.  “Who am I now?” 

“I suppose you’ll find out,” he replied. 

She sucked in breath through her thick teeth, lips smacking as she fought to control it.  Her other hand snaked out to grab his free arm, startling Jaime with her liberties amongst a crowd. “What did you say?” 

“Brienne?” Dacey interrupted.  Again. 

Just as quickly as she had demanded his space and his attention, Brienne let go, recoiling like she had been burned.  “Ser Addam?” she asked.  “Will you help Ser Jaime?” 

He felt another, smaller hand clasp his shoulder and then the balmy air cooled as Brienne stepped away to join the women, leaving Jaime confused and concerned.  The swamp could not have turned her mad just yet. 

“This way,” Reed said as Jaime heard the sweep of skirts, the skip of Arya’s restless pace, and the heavy and tinkling footfalls of the other women as they followed the she-bear. 

Addam guided him across a small courtyard, thick with short grasses and patches of dirt that rang their strides hollowly against the reeds keeping them above the water.  When they reached the first cluster of steps, Jaime was not surprised to feel wood, rather than stone, beneath his feet.  They silently traversed a stretching hall, which led to a higher flight of stairs that took long enough to ascend that the men, though not their young squires, were puffing in their armor.  Jaime had to reach out and grasp the railing to keep himself steady when Addam paused below him, finding it to be made of thick rope strung as tight as a bow. After some more climbing, his fingers finally fell off, touching cool, wet moss lining the walls, as he landed on another hall. 

There was a soft breeze here, coming from one side, making Jaime think of the windows Brienne had described as they neared the castle. The wind shifted as Reed led them down passages while Jaime tried to remember which turns they took, but he was distracted by the tepid relief from the suffocating, soggy air of the swamp. 

Reed paused them and chuckled.  “You’ll find that armor is a disadvantage here.  It’s best to be free to move so as not to be seen, rather than to have to fight and guard yourselves.” 

“It’s buggering hotter than the seventh hell down there,” Clegane rasped. 

“It’s not so bad now though, Ser,” Peck observed. 

“Aye,” Reed said.  “It’s the humidity that is hard to bear.  We mostly live in the higher levels of the castle where we can catch the breeze. And we’ve kept it open and let the moss grow everywhere.  We make sure it’s moist because, as it dries, it cools the wind.  And then we wet it again.” 

Hasty huffed grudgingly.  “That’s quite some sorcery.” 

“Oh, Ser Bonifer,” Reed laughed.  “ _That_ is not magic. Perhaps if you were not so busy praying to your gods, you may have come up with it yourself.” 

Knowing there would be some sort of offended response, Jaime tiredly cut in. “Yes, yes.  We of the Faith spend too much time on our knees while you frog-eaters curse yourselves to all the hells.  Can we just cut through that argument? I’m sure we are all tired.” 

“Perhaps you would like to run your tongue along the discussion that I am housing Lannisters in my castle,” Reed spat back.  “And _not_ in the cells.” 

Jaime scoffed and crossed his arms, hoping he was close to looking at the crannogman.  “Oh, you have cells? How sweet.  What are the bars made of, vines?” 

“I’m sure your tall _wench_ has warned you against speaking without thought, Kingslayer.  If you are so curious about the dungeon, I can easily arrange for an intimate visit.” Jaime opened his mouth, aware of how foolish he was being, hearing the small voice of Brienne in the back of his mind, as blue light burst before his angry eyes, hissing at him to close it. But, Reed saved him from spewing out anything more toxic.  “ _But_ you are all guests here and as long as you do not raise a hand against my men, then guests you shall remain.” 

The tension sizzled like Reed had set a burning torch into water. But Jaime still gnawed on the inside of his cheek as their host showed the squires to their room. It was connected to the chambers that would be Clegane’s and Ser Bonifer’s and to the ones on the other side, which would hold Jaime and Addam.  Reed made sure to guide each of them into their quarters, leaving only him to escort Jaime to the last room. 

“There’s a bed to your right,” Reed told him with a clammy, cracked hand on his wrist.  He gently nudged Jaime so that he bumped into the side of a light cot, which tipped even with his careful weight.  “And a trunk at the end.” They moved down the wall so Jaime could find it.  “Some chairs and a table below the window, which is across from the door.  And there’s a hearth with candles opposite the bed.” 

The sound of their heels against the wood floor was dampened by a straw rug thrown across the small expanse.  Jaime reached out cautiously to balance himself, his fingers grazing against his first touch of stone since entering the swamp.  And once his boots had cleared the rug, the tips kicked against more slates as the hearth spilled out into the floorboards, protecting any flames from the candles reaching the wood of the castle. 

 _All that time saved from praying may have indeed educated these mudmen. If only they favored the taste of real meat._  

“You may find you like frog,” Reed suddenly interrupted with a snort. 

The realization that this crannogman, a Stark bannerman, an enemy, someone who was not even a knight and yet had killed the best one that Jaime had ever known, was inside his head should have shocked him.  But, he had already known it, for quite some time. And Reed was aware of that as well. 

“Is that what haunts you?” he continued.  “How could a tiny bog devil take down the Sword of the Morning?” 

“I don’t suppose you will give me any peace by telling me,” Jaime snapped. He shuffled back to the window and managed to lower himself into one of the chairs, feeling the humid air swirl in and spread fingers through his hair. 

After he was settled and slumped over his knees, he felt Reed take the seat across from him.  “My answers will give you nothing that you need, Ser.  We are not men of peace.” 

 _But I could be_ , Jaime thought, calling up blue and calm and warm.  “If you didn’t hope to find quiet hiding in your swamp, then why refuse to leave it?” 

Reed chuckled and drummed his long fingers on the tabletop. “Did you seek to be the one Kingsguard member to be left with Aerys? Did you make sure that Brandon Stark found you in that tower? Did you choose to be captured by Robb, only to be traded to Renly? I’ve found that no matter where you go, your fate will find you.” 

“And here I’ve been running around Westeros trying to escape it,” Jaime grumbled. 

“Yet it has led you here, to be protected by a man you had considered your personal foe.  Years ago, you would have tried to run your sword through me at the first chance you got.” 

He was right, but Jaime was not sure he had changed that much. “Who’s to say I still wouldn’t if I could see?” 

With the whisper of cloaks shifting and the leaves woven between the fibers rustling, Reed gave him a shrug and a snort.  “Then that is why you come to me blind.  You need my help, Jaime Lannister.” 

“I’m past the point of anyone’s help.” 

“Even your wench’s?” 

The question dangled before Jaime’s blind gaze, hovering, tantalizing and frightening, on the other side of the veil of his vision. Howland Reed may have known more about him than most, but the notion that he could be as deeply imbedded in Brienne’s mind worried Jaime.  If he so chose, he could use them against each other and, as Reed had so smoothly mentioned, Jaime was powerless.  Once again, he cursed himself for ever entering the swamp.  _Is this how I die, skewered like a frog?_  

“She seems quite loyal to the Starks,” Reed pressed. 

“She is,” Jaime replied, waiting for the fork to pierce him. 

“And you are loyal to her.” It was not a question and so Jaime felt no need to answer it.  “But what of the North?” 

Jaime had given little thought to the North.  His mind was just as blank as his sight and his heart was ripped into pieces, clawed at by his former pride and clumsily stitched together by his giant, ugly savior.  “You must know of what happened in King’s Landing.” 

“I heard I could be quite the rich man if I let your father know where you are.” 

Jaime growled and clenched his fists, sitting back in the chair, which groaned with his weight.  “He’ll know my whereabouts soon enough.” 

“Ser,” Reed started, leaning forward to speak softly.  “Revenge is only satisfying to the man that succeeds. It will do nothing to set the right of your brother’s death.” 

“You never met Tyrion,” Jaime snorted.  “And I have no qualms with killing the few to save more.  The Lannisters are already kin slayers, I may as well follow my father’s example, just as he’s always wanted.” 

“Yes, Tywin must have been thinking just that when he wiped out half of the Northern power in one evening.  But would you rather be just like him, or the woman you defied him for?” 

Brienne. She would be furious at first, angry tinted flesh tainted with murky freckles, dirty fingernails digging into her large palms as she tried to contain her wrath, her nostrils flaring as air jostled down her broken nose.  But she would have to understand.  She had tried to give her life for her own failures, after all.  And Jaime would do the same.  Perhaps she would cry for him for a few evenings, he could hope, but the North, and Brienne, would be safer without the Lannisters hunting them down. 

“When did you become the man that would throw himself down on a blade?” Reed chuckled, lowly.  “You are more like Arthur Dayne than I had thought.” 

“What is it you want of me, Reed?” Jaime snapped.  Why could he not simply be left alone with his grief, with his choice, with the lingering touch that he craved? 

“We make decisions with every breathe of our lives, Kingslayer,” came the reply. “Some we think we do on our own, some we know have been made for us, and all change the outcomes of not just ourselves, but the many, in one way or another.  It is why we may sit in this room, two men in opposing sides of war, and still both _be_ breathing.” 

Jaime sighed and scrubbed at his jaw, more from habit than from any irritation caused by the fine, smooth hairs now sprouting from his chin. When the furious motion did nothing to calm him, he pulled his fingers through his hair, wincing at the knots in the wild curls.  “What do you care if I go back or not?” 

“I don’t,” Reed said.  “But should you stay, it would be one of those decisions you make yourself.” 

 _Should I stay?_ Death waited for him back in the arms of his sister, but in the embrace of Brienne, perhaps he could have a taste of life, before he followed her in to whatever peril awaited from protecting the last heir to the North.  And in keeping that young wolf alive, he would be helping to bring down not only his family, but all who had killed and connived to keep them in power. It certainly sounded like something Tyrion would enjoy, though Jaime imagined he would find his demise on the edge of a blade, one way or another.  He would just be selfishly stealing some time with his wench before that happened. And that thought was much more appealing than revenge. 

“You would stay for her.” Reed’s voice was tinged with faint amusement. “Women are always the sweetest, aren’t they? More than riches or victory or power.” It sounded like he was no longer addressing Jaime, who had no desire to discuss with him the vast differences in the appeal of women. 

“I will stay,” Jaime said.  _Though what is the word of the Kingslayer, anyway?_  

“Good.” Reed clapped his hands on his knees, which creaked and snapped as he stood.  “Best get some rest. I’ve been told the night is dark and full of terrors.” 

Jaime snorted as he listened to the crannogman leave the room. “It’s always dark now.”

  

However, the night was not dark at all, but a torrent of light. Despite the cool breeze and the wet moss sucking up the humid air, Jaime tossed in blankets soaked through with his sweat.  It was a burn that was deep within him and coursing up his skin, pushing and straining to burst through beneath the hairs along his body.  But his head was the worst.  The pain focused into sword points at his temple, twisting and pounding, flames licking behind his eyes, boiling his mind and turning him into a sobbing mess as he writhed and cursed silently.  He would have welcomed the blackness now and yet he was plagued with flashes like the quick flare of a fire or the sweep of lightning dancing across the clouds. And with them came not only the ache but a blur of colors as he blinked and rubbed at his eyes. There was green and wood, wall and stone.  And when he was just about to sleep, he could see blue, the churn of a hungry sea and the glitter of pure and fresh tide pools brimming with life. 

Finally, the rolling of his stomach and the constant pain ebbed him into a fitful lull where it would all end blessedly for a short time. When he woke next, he felt sunlight against his face and the smell of the candles had become nothing but smoke and hot wax.  Groaning, he turned his face into the cool shade against the wall just as footsteps loped into his room, pounding against his ears but trying to be light and quiet as they bustled about his room. 

He sighed, knowing it was not a servant or one of the men, her movements just as unique and familiar as her touch or her appearance.  And while he wanted desperately to have some peaceful rest, her presence alone in his room called to him and he wondered if he could coax her to sit on the first bed they had in weeks.  It was the only room Jaime had gotten to himself in all the time that he had known her and he wondered if she was blushing at the thought that there were no guards outside, no one next to them, sleeping on the ground or cot beside them, giving them curious and suspicious looks, most like. 

Rolling over with a tease on his tongue, Jaime instinctively opened his eyes. And to his shock, images flooded in, rushing against the blockade of his lashes.  Quickly, he absorbed the bleary sight of a wall of moss near his feet, a mess of candles in a tiled hearth across from him, and a thin and dirty blanket draped over his body.  But once he had blinked away sleep and weeks of blindness, he immediately sought her out, partly fearful it would all go dark before he could see her again. 

Brienne was at the small table, fiddling with the bowls of food and skin of water she had brought in.  The light coming from the window bloomed on her pale hair, hastily pushed back from her high forehead, the strands wild and catching the sun’s rays like spun hay. Her skin was just as wan as he remembered, hardly colored from their nights of travel and sleeping hidden under bushes, but there were more freckles than he had counted in his mind and his fingers itched to trace and memorize the ones he had left out. She was a tall and hunched form, her large fingers fumbling with the small utensils as she tried to place them quietly into each of the bowls.  Jaime had learned to eat mostly on his own, but he missed the days of feeling her touch on him while he ate and the thought of sharing from the same bread or tangling their tastes on the same spoon made his fingers twitch. 

When she was done, she moved towards him and startled when she saw his eyes open. “Oh,” she breathed, blushing and averting her gaze, though she must not have known that he could see it. “You’re awake.” 

“Yes,” he sighed.  And for so long, it had not really been the truth. 

But now he could see her, catching glimpses of a blue he had not properly captured in his mind as she stole glances at him and her cheeks flared into a delicious crimson that burnt her scars and blemishes.  She reached out and he watched her hand curl around his arm, knew the pressure of her strength as her fingernails bit into his flesh and she helped him sit up.  But he drank in the way she looked over him, how sapphires winked in the light as she blinked rapidly, raking him like a physical touch with how she studied his body, pausing on the bob of his throat as he swallowed under the heat of her watching him. When she bit and worried her mouth as she caressed his stubbled cheeks with her scrutiny, Jaime swallowed down a groan, recalling her touch on his face, the feel of her sweaty and calloused fingers between his lips and how she had brought back heat and life to his heart. 

“Jaime?” she said, running her hand up to his shoulder.  She was frowning at him, turning her features even uglier with the turn of her mouth and the crease of her forehead, but he could only thank any gods that may exist that she was his first sight. 

He grinned, not able to help himself or keep from looking directly into her brilliant azure eyes, drowning in them.  And a small smile flitted across her lips as she unabashedly let delight brighten her face. She was strength and power, purity and youth, wrapped into this strange parcel that Jaime wanted to tuck against his body and take in all the parts of her that she never allowed to show. He wanted the woman that was blushing sweetly and appraising him with growing desire, the one that could pin him to the cot should she dislike anything that he wanted to do to her. 

Fueled by the pooling air heating between them, Jaime reached out and slid one of his arms around where her waist should have been, if she were not all muscle and leanness.  He wrangled her like a wildcat to sit on the cot with him as surprised protests and his name tumbled from her mouth like stream water skipping down a hill, while her hands shot to his chest for balance.  She did not push him away when his other arm wound around her shoulders and his fingers tangled into her hair, pulling her towards him as he tilted his head and kissed the shock and question that twisted her mouth and scrunched her face as she searched his own. 

She tasted like fresh earth and heavy musk when he sucked in her bottom lip, swallowing her gasps.  And when he nipped at her mouth, he caught a soft sweetness like honeyed spring water. He sipped it, reveling in her body relaxing in his arms, her hands gripping his tunic hard enough to rip it before she smoothed her palms over his chest muscles, spreading fire and fluttering his heart.  With her touch came a calming balm that soothed his anger and his regrets, leaving only this moment, simple and pure. 

He opened his eyes so he could take in the sight of her, practically resting against his shoulder, her eyes closed and her mouth swollen and parted, letting short and heavy breaths puff against his cheek.  He smiled, though she could not see it, and leaned back to kiss her again, trailing from her lips to her cheek and then down her jaw. When he looked again, she was watching him while her body started to tremble and her fingertips skittered up to his collarbone.  This is how it should have been when he had come to her at the Twins.  The moment they were safe should have been nothing but her huddled into his embrace while he looked upon her again and kissed her breathless. 

Though the door to his room was still open, Jaime snaked his hand beneath one of her knees and lifted it up to his hip, moving to hover over her as he reclined them both on the cot, his lips moving to feel her frantic heartbeat against her thick neck.  But the touch sent her bolting.  Tangled in trembling legs that reminded him of a new born doe, Brienne tumbled from beneath him and managed to stand. 

“You can _see_ ,” she accused. 

Still leaning over, Jaime grunted and tried to hide his arousal. “Yes, wench.” 

“For how long?” 

“Just this morning,” he snapped, loathing the accusation and fear in her voice. “Gods, what goes on inside that head of yours? It’s so stuffed with storybook knights and distrust, how am I going to fit in there?” 

“You-you,” she stuttered and all the stubbornness and pliability peeled from her like a skin and she was simply rigid and cold.  “You should not have done that.” 

“Then stop me because I’ll do it again.” He hid his frustration behind a feral grin that had her wringing her hands.  “I don’t care to ask why or how I can see but I know it means no more excuses. So, now…what do you want?” 

She worked her mouth, the one that he had just claimed, the pleasure having made him light heated and green as a squire.  And then, she was gone. 

With a sigh, Jaime dropped his head to the cot. “I should have expected that.”


	22. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am thrilled with the response from the last chapter! Thank you all so much and I hope you continue enjoying this.
> 
> A long, slow clap for Coraleeveritas for all of her help. I'm embarking on a new writing challenge and I am grateful to have a beta that is so skilled where I am nothing but a blushing bride. She has a huge wealth of advice, but she's also spent a lengthy amount of time trying to calm me and guide me. Thank you for having faith in me and for being so patient.
> 
> I also have to thank Sandwichesyumyum for her help and her words. I have looked up to her in her ability to create and give life to new and secondary characters and really fleshed out the world and influences around J/B. To have her encourage me with my own characters is a huge honor. Thank you!

He had kissed her.  Not only that, but he had _looked_ at her, he had s _een_ her, not just a distorted reflection, like a rippling, dark eddy, submerged in his mind, but how she truly appeared, sweating and disheveled, ugly and openly staring at him. He must have caught her drinking him in, burning in the image of him just waking, rumbling sleepily, with no one else to give her curious gazes as she imprinted the shift of his muscles to the backs of her eyelids.  Beneath the spark still lingering from his lips, she could feel the flare of embarrassment at having been caught.  So, she had run. 

But true escape seemed to be an impossibility as Brienne lumbered down the halls of Greywater Watch.  She could still feel him, the heat of his skin through their linen tunics as he pressed himself against her, the slide of his fingertips as he gripped her hair, her shoulders, her leg, marking her with a brand that remained seared into her flesh. Even as she shot out a steadying hand, starting a bit from expecting cool stone but meeting damp moss, forgetting everything but Jaime, her palm sinking in to the soft vegetation did nothing to ground her back to the earth, to the swamp, to duty and honor and the notions that had filled her head and her heart, pushing out the fantasies. Though he had not followed her, he was still prowling in her footsteps. 

She was lost in sensations, in what she had never dreamed of, what her septa had never told her about.  With shaking fingers, Brienne rubbed at her mouth, but it did nothing to release the prickling heat that would ebb and flow, rolling up before calming down beneath silken smoothness.  It was as if Jaime was still kissing her, running his soft lips over her dry ones, and then, as he focused above or below, the scrape of his blooming beard lingering, like the scrub of a brush scouring her raw.   She would never have known, nor expected, to search for that feeling, especially not how it remained, along with the taste, of sleep and spice and steel that was Jaime, coating her throat every time she swallowed. 

When she finally returned to her rooms with the other women, far from the halls of the men, she was still out of breath and boiling from within. Sweat was blooming across the expanse of her skin and yet it felt like her body was so chilled, it burned, as if she was buried under ice and snow.  She shivered all the more from the thought, wondering if the North would be this cold. 

Lady Dacey, whose nostrils were flaring while she tried to remain still to let Lady Sansa plait her hair, noticed as soon as Brienne entered. She frowned as she watched her slip inside and edge to her cot, sitting hard enough for a crack to echo. 

“Lady Brienne,” Lady Sansa greeted as she looked up from her fine work, hardly a gossamer raven thread loose.  “Are you well? You appear flushed.” 

“Yes,” Dacey snorted. “And how is Ser Jaime fairing?” 

“I’m fine,” Brienne replied, nodding to Lady Sansa.  _But why do I feel like I have not slept since the Twins?_   “And Ser Jaime…I-It seems that Ser Jaime may have recovered his sight.” 

Lady Sansa dropped the braid with a gasp.  “Thank the gods!” 

“How is that so?” Dacey asked in the same heartbeat. 

Brienne stared at her fumbling hands as she realized she had done nothing to ask Jaime what precisely he could see, if he felt well, or how it had even occurred. She had been too torn up and stitched back together with her shame and his kisses, treating her like a delicate creature to be ravished, blurring what her own image of herself had always been. But he was in a strange fortress, surrounded by enemies of his family, and he was alone in this new world. And she had run. “I-I am not sure.” She tried to hide wiping her wet nose on her sleeve.  “Perhaps Ser Addam will bring him to a maester.” 

Dacey shook her head.  “There are healers here. But I think they would know better about what happened to Jaime than any man trained from the Citadel.” She eyed Brienne knowingly as Lady Sansa began to finish the end of her hair. “I told you that strange things happen in the swamp.”  

 _Is it some marsh madness that made Jaime kiss me, then?_ Brienne sighed and searched for another, safer subject to speak of.  “Where is your sister, Lady Sansa?” 

The wolf sniffed and the weaves of hair became tighter.  “Exploring, no doubt.  She feels she does not need to be present for the bannermen meetings.” 

“She is not the heir to the North,” Dacey allowed. 

“She is still a Stark,” Brienne said.  “And she should not wander alone, even here.” 

Dacey winced as Lady Sansa put her strength into securing her hair. “Oh, she’s not alone,” she hissed. “Sandor Clegane agreed to accompany her.” 

“That may not be wise,” Brienne replied with a frown.  She was grateful for this new concern and distraction, though in the back of her mind there was a curiosity if either Dacey or Lady Sansa had ever been kissed.  _Do they all feel like that? So consuming?_ But she kept such reckless thoughts to herself. 

With a yank to pull her braid from the firm, slender grip of her charge, Dacey said, “Actually, it may be quite beneficial.  Mother and Lord Howland should witness the trust we have in the Lannisters.” 

“Trust,” came the voice of the she-bear matriarch.  “Can still be misplaced.” She stepped into the room with the speed and silence of one twice her size and half her age, sending Brienne and Dacey to their feet.  The gray in her long hair shone like steel, matching the metal of the mace that never left her hip. “Lady Sansa,” she greeted with a bow. 

“Lady Mormont,” Lady Sansa nodded.  “I assure you that I know all about misplaced trust _now_.” Her bannerman was not so stubborn as to refuse to lower her eyes in acknowledgement of that sobering statement.  “The men that escorted me here will stay. That is final.” 

“As you command, my lady,” Maege Mormont replied, not bothering to hide her approving smile.  “I’m here to bring you to the morning briefing, if you are ready.” 

With a swirl of skirts provided by their host, chosen for the rare grey fabrics that the crannogmen had traded for, Lady Sansa followed Dacey from the room. Brienne remained, waiting for Lady Mormont to trail, but the elderly woman paused with a hard study of her, seemingly unconcerned by how far she had to tilt back to regard her. “Lady Brienne. Gods, you look like a trussed up hen. If you had feathers, you’d be coating the floor with them.” 

“Oh.” Brienne’s gaze flew to her boots as she squeezed her sword hilt for comfort.  She swallowed a cough. “My apologies.” _What has Jaime done to me?_  

Lady Mormont scoffed and waved her away like a fly swerving by her nose. “You spout more courtesies than your charge,” she said as she swept from the room without a single glance to make sure that Brienne was behind her.  Of course, though, she was, however much she was struggling to simply lift her legs. “Yet Lady Sansa has built her armor with her cold, gracious words.  She has honed a sword with the sharpness of her name, with the stern face of a noble woman.  But we, who have truly protected ourselves on the outside, don’t need to guard with words.” 

There was a finality in Lady Mormont’s tone, something Brienne had noticed during the discussions at Riverrun with Lady Catelyn.  Remembering the moments where Jaime had accused her of hiding behind a thin veil of her septa’s calculated teachings, reverting to propriety so that she could bury her heart, Brienne found herself quietly replying. “There are some things that a breast plate and a blade cannot defend against.” 

For a heartbeat, she was worried she had offended Lady Mormont, as she watched her back brace and her steps falter.  The she-bear threw a look over her shoulder, all raised brows and pursed lips. But then her short legs were carrying her swiftly again and Brienne was speeding up to stay close. “We are fighters, Brienne. We are not game players, merely pieces to be moved.  So, what we say may flow freely and what we do may be our choice.  And what others speak of or how they act against us does not need to be ignored.  We are meant to do what our liege lord cannot.” 

“Like avenge the Starks?” 

“If we must,” Lady Mormont replied.  “But what I was speaking of was _living_.” 

Brienne frowned.  _Could she know about Jaime?_ A part of her wanted to ask, to spill out the mess of thoughts that were crashing through her mind, swept up in gold and fire.  But she was not yet ready to release the swirling vines that Jaime had planted in her heart and were fanning out, claiming and squeezing all that they touched within her. It was fear, she knew, fear to see Jaime in the eyes of those who held her vows, fear to be reminded that she was, indeed, just a fighter, a tool, an ugly thing made by the gods for war and winter. So, she bundled it all up, hoping to tame the wild beast that it was.  That must have been what was making her feel so lightheaded and heated. 

“I live to serve,” Brienne carefully responded, weighing each word like she was judging the balance of a dagger. 

Lady Mormont snorted.  “I don’t particularly enjoy pointing to the Kingslayer for an example, but if he had followed that belief, you and my daughter would be in the Green Fork with our Lady Catelyn, gods forgive us all for that.” 

As they continued down the hall, Brienne and Lady Mormont were draped in their own heavy silences.  Brienne’s thoughts were a mess of red and screams and a haze of tears, effectively banishing those that had ruled her mind earlier in the day.  But Lady Mormont had not been there and Brienne could see the questions bubbling up the she-bear’s throat, needing and dreading to know. It had been worse than anything Brienne could have ever imagined, waking or warped in sleep.  She was grateful when Lady Mormont turned her head to continue walking and did not ask her to gather words to build back up that night. It would have torn her asunder to do so. 

They entered the same hall that they had been ushered in to the day before. It was simple, even when comparing it to Evenfall, but it was still rich.  The ceilings were high, feeling grand in the tight alleys and small rooms that seemed to piece together Greywater Watch, arched and held up with wooden beams and columns that were carved and twisted, silhouettes of swamp life crawling up and across them.  The hearth was for warmth more than light so it was cold and dark now, with the green morning sunlight winding in through the windows and bounding against mirrors which threw the room into gilded emerald brightness.  It was meant as a display for guests, few though this castle received, of the magic and marvel that was the crannogmen. And it captured Brienne’s gaze just as firmly as it had before. 

Lord Howland stood from the large circular table in the center, pulling out the seat to his left, which Lady Sansa graciously took, and motioned for the others to choose their places.  

There were two other crannogmen, as well as Ser Galbert Glover, already at the table.  Lady Mormont sat with her fellow bannermen easily enough, but Brienne was uncertain about joining them.  Though she had not even opened her mouth during the last meeting, she would have been more comfortable standing outside or along one of the walls. During her time with the Starks, and with King Renly, she had spent many gatherings skirting the nobles, with no real desire to play an active part in their deliberations. It was as Lady Mormont said, she was simply a fighter and her place was at the periphery. 

Yet now, Lady Sansa looked across at her expectantly, blue eyes blinking politely and a thin smile playing across her rosebud lips.  “Lady Brienne, would you like to say anything about what we discussed yesterday?” 

Brienne tried to remember what had been spoken of.  Most of it had been in regards to how Lady Sansa and Lady Arya came to be escorted by the last of the Stark bannermen and a handful of Lannister knights, including the Kingslayer.  And all Brienne could think about were her dreams, echoed in waking by Jaime’s voice, the sudden divide opening between them as she was easily accepted, though stared at, by the crannogmen, while they fluctuated from mocking pity to scorn towards Jaime.  But there had been more to the discussion, after hours of stifled sobs and tentative touching, a ritual of mourning that she was becoming too familiar with, and Brienne recalled Ser Galbert explaining to Lady Sansa the intent of her brother in sending him and Lady Mormont to find Greywater Watch. “How long would it take to move on Moat Cailin?” 

“Less than a fortnight,” Lord Howland replied.  “We have to skirt to the west and east so as to avoid the Kingsroad but the path through the swamps is quicker, if one knows where they are going.” 

Brienne nodded, though the thought of remaining for weeks in the cloying heat that seemed to wet her lungs, was not a pleasant one. She had a sudden flash of Jaime lazing on a crannog smaller than the one the fortress floated on, simply _watching_ the sweat roll down her neck. She shivered.  “And how many ironborn do your scouts report to be defending it?” 

“Perhaps one hundred.  The numbers matter not.  There are many ways to lay a siege.” 

“Ways that will allow the men that you can spare to be enough?” Brienne frowned. 

“We would ask that you provide some that would stay at Moat Cailin and more that could move on,” Dacey added and then turned to look from her mother to her charge.  “While it can defend us from southerners, it is too vulnerable from the north to keep Lady Sansa there for long.” 

“Aye, and a Stark does no good hiding in a stronghold,” Lady Mormont agreed. 

“But,” Lady Sansa spoke quietly and all settled to listen.  “Where should we go? It’s not yet safe to go _home,_ is it?” There was so much hope in the word that all the eyes which had been looking to her with the same emotion, but were filled to brimming with sights that had taught them how delicate that sentiment was, and how easily it could be lost, turned away from the image of the young, beautiful maiden beseeching them. 

It was Lord Howland that reached over tentatively to wrap her long, fine fingers under the small, cracked and scratched palm of his hand.  “No, my dear.  You will have Winterfell back one day, but there are many places in the North that would be honored to take you in until then.” 

Lady Sansa smiled, already close to perfecting the sweet turn of her lips and the crinkle of her gaze without the mirth falling into her cool stare. “You are right, of course, my lord. Forgive me.  Here I am with my sister, concerned for a castle, when you must be worried for your children.” 

“Meera and Jojen are free from that _traitor_ , at least.” Lord Howland patted her hand and none questioned how he knew. Nothing seemed to be impossible in the Neck or when this small, unremarkable looking man was involved. 

The thought brought Brienne back to her dreams, but she hastily pushed that away as she heard Lady Sansa ask, “And how will we take revenge on the ironborn in Moat Cailin?” 

Ser Galbert frowned, his beard creasing around the act.  “I doubt that is proper discussion with a lady…” 

“Which lady would you be referring to?” Lady Mormont chuckled menacingly. “The two that survived the massacre at the Twins? The one that revived her house after her nephew left it in ruin and poverty? Or perhaps the one that is to be your queen?” When Ser Galbert merely crossed his arms and glared at her, she grunted. “Please continue, Howland, and scandalize the gentle women with your tales of war.” 

“Our archers can target any man that even walks past a window and it does not have to be a killing blow.  The poison in the tips will do that just fine, as long as it can find blood to enter. And for those that are smart enough to stay away from the outside, we know the source of their water and we can corrupt that as well.  They may survive on wine or ale, but not for long.” 

“Good,” Lady Sansa sniffed with her nose turned up.  Brienne thought about the interminable heartbeats at the Twins and imagined those moments stretched out for days or even weeks and she could not find it in her to desire that for any man, enemy or no. But Lady Sansa knew of no such things and Brienne did not want her to ever learn.  _Let her keep her fierce innocence, as long as it does not turn to foolishness._   “And we are taking all of the men that came with me to Greywater Watch.” 

“As my lady commands,” Lord Howland nodded, though he sounded agreeable enough with the notion of getting rid of the Lannister men in his castle. For an instant, Brienne thought that he had winked at her, but then he was clapping his hands on the table and standing, offering his arm to Lady Sansa.  “My lady, all of this talk must have left you hungry. I’ve offered my hall to feast the day in celebration of your arrival.  Let us give you some respite while you relax amongst friends.” 

Lady Sansa flushed with the eagerness of youth, reminding Brienne of the proclivities of highborn maidens.  The notion of a table crowded with nobility and servants only sent Brienne’s blood racing in fear and flight, but she could see the excitement sparkle and finally enliven her charge’s Tully blue eyes.  For the welcome sight of Lady Sansa truly smiling, Brienne swallowed the groan bubbling up her throat and attempted to turn up the corners of her mouth. Looking over at Dacey, she saw a similar struggle for collection. 

“Oh, that sounds lovely, Lord Howland,” Lady Sansa exclaimed as she took his elbow and stood, smoothing her skirts with excited fingertips before flitting up to tug at her hair.  “But I could not ask of you to strain your storehouses for us.” 

“The swamps offer us plenty,” he replied, leading her around the table and towards the entrance.  Though he only reached her shoulder, Lord Howland moved with confidence, making him appear to be towering over her as Lady Sansa bent to listen to him speak. “Though winter may be coming, my dear Stark, this land is the last that it dare touches.” 

Lady Sansa giggled at that, the first true laugh that Brienne had heard from her. It seemed to freshen the air and she realized that the sun was slicing through the windows higher than before, hitting different mirrors, and still washing the room in brilliant golden light. They had been discussing for longer than she had thought, her stomach tightening to remind her that she had fled that morning from her porridge.  And Jaime.  

Suddenly, food lost its appeal and she would have been content to find some cool, quiet corner to sit and let her thoughts tumble out so that she could piece them back together. 

The others stood as well, the scraping of chairs echoing along the columns and bouncing up the high ceilings.  They ambled out, though Brienne noticed Lady Mormont and Ser Galbert pausing to let the rest of the gathering leave before them. 

“It is not our decision to make,” the she bear was growling. “King Robb sent us with the naming of his heir and it is _not_ his sisters.” 

“Jon Snow is a bastard,” Lord Glover snapped back.  “The North is shattered and still reeling from this betrayal. Our people will not risk their houses to rally against a boy who has taken the black.” 

“And they will follow an inexperienced maiden?” 

He bristled and took a step towards her, though Lady Mormont did not move away. “I would follow a Stark!” 

“Then. Follow.  A.  Stark’s. Order,” she punctuated with a plump finger to the belly of the man, who huffed and brushed at the intruding digit. 

Brienne watched him stalk from the hall in a swirl of cloak and insults, his footsteps a grumbling tirade as he continued away at an increasing speed. “Lady Mormont?” she cautiously asked. 

The woman turned to her, still with a sneer twisting her lips and her forehead scrunched in anger, but she quickly relaxed her features with a sighing laugh. “Oh.  You do make a convincing pillar, Brienne. I had not known you were there.” 

“I did not mean to overhear, my lady,” Brienne coughed lightly in to her fist, ignoring the thickness stirring in her lungs. 

“Not to worry.  You were there when King Robb named his brother the heir, anyway.” 

“Yes,” she said.  “Is it not as you said, Lady Mormont? Are we not simply tools for our liege lords? Can Lord Glover truly keep information from Lady Sansa?” 

“Of course not,” the she bear snorted.  “But the North is a frail thing now and we cannot afford to anger any of the allies that we can provide to Winterfell.  I hate to say it, but the man’s right.  However by keeping anything from Lady Sansa, it is a sign of his distrust in _her_ leadership as well.” 

“And you think that Moat Cailin will be the place where he is ready to accept any decisions that she makes?” 

Lady Mormont smiled at her warmly, but her head tilted back a bit, as if she was rocked with surprise at Brienne’s observation.  “Aye, that’s the hope of Howland and I.” She reached out and Brienne quickly bent her arm for the woman to take.  “You are learning, I think, that tools are not simply blunt instruments to swing around.  They are sharp ears and pointed tongues, hearing and saying what their wielders cannot.” 

“Yes, my lady,” Brienne replied as they left together. 

“Gods, I hate to think you already learned that from someone like the Kingslayer.” 

Brienne hoped that she was smiling, but all she could feel was the tautness of the muscles beneath her cheeks, fighting to pull her mouth down in to a frown. Whatever her expression, it satisfied Lady Mormont and they continued through the narrow corridors, deeper into the fortress.  And if Brienne dragged her feet, there was no note of it, as it did not matter in the end, for they made it to the dining hall with Lady Mormont adamantly tugging her along. 

The chamber was only slightly larger than the gathering hall, though the ceilings were even taller, providing room for a balcony to circle the wall above their heads. Looking up, Brienne could see archways leading out to other levels of the keep and in between were tables covered in linen and heaped with dented plates of food.  There were already crannogmen bustling to sit in mismatched chairs, the groan of wood and the tinkling of metal echoing up to the domed ceiling, whose top was covered in glass to let sunlight burst in, as if through a canopy of trees. 

The party was escorted between benches stretched along the small length of the lower hall, already bowing in weight of frog and stork, gator and boar, interspersed amongst troughs of berries and nuts and piles of hearty root vegetables and wild leafy greens.  There was bowls of stew beside every basket of fresh bread, coiling with smoke still from the oven.  The fare was simple, but plentiful, more of what Brienne was used to on the road or even in Evenfall, as she was pleased to find a platter of fish as well.   With the comforting food, she was surprised at the painful clench of her stomach at the swell of steamed scales wafting up to her. 

She was too engrossed in taking in the tables, the crannogmen as they passed, waiting patiently for their guests to be seated, and the drapes of gossamer fabric spilling from the ceiling and twirling around the banister of the balcony, falling to kiss the floor beneath, to look ahead of her. But as she glanced up to see Lord Howland pull an intricate high backed chair out for Lady Sansa, Brienne found that the others had already taken places at a curved table facing the rest of the hall.  The Stark sisters were in the middle, having an unspoken argument between glares, clashing grey storms and blue spring skies, while the Lannister knights were separated on either side, further down, after a row of empty chairs flanked the girls. 

While Lord Howland sat to the left of Lady Sansa, Dacey was ushered beside him, smiling to her other side at Ser Addam.  Lady Mormont guided Brienne as she plopped down to the right of Ser Galbert, who took up position next to Lady Arya.  And Brienne found herself turning to stare in to churning jade seas as Jaime Lannister watched her shakily try to sit in her chair, nearly missing as he leaned in to grin at her.  

She looked away, having forgotten in the days of distant, searching gazes how he could pin her with his stare, cut down her height and strip her of armor and sword with nothing but a simple look, as if she could keep his interest from spilling through her fingers.  Though she fumbled with straightening the utensils before her and managed to knock her empty cup against her plate, she could feel him still watching her, his heat and the space that Jaime filled, even without titles like Kingslayer or Lord Commander or Lannister, crashing against her like a wave. 

"You're red, wench," he murmured.  "And shaking slightly.  I had not remembered you looking so, whenever I was around.  But I can _see_ it now." 

"Yes." Brienne licked her lips, trying to grasp enough time to find what to say, but she lost it all again the moment Jaime leaned further towards her. "I-I'm pl-pleased you have regained you-your sight." 

He snorted and sat back.  "Are you? It didn't seem like such a pleasure earlier." 

The rumble and derision in his tone drew Brienne to turn her head to him, hardly allowing her enough time to brace herself for the fury flaming his cheeks and the contortions of golden skin on his forehead.  And he was _glaring_ , restless eyes stabbing at every part of her, memorizing and stealing pieces of her. But she set her jaw and looked back at him, daring him to snap or laugh at her as she met the green of moss at night. "I believed all along you would recover,” she reminded him vehemently, willing him to believe her. “I _am_ truly glad that you can see again." 

The creases lightened but he still clung firmly to the grip of his anger. "So that you don't have to feel guilt about my injury from saving you.  So that you don't have to take care of a cripple." 

"So that you can stop feeling sorry for yourself," she snapped back, turning away as she silently cursed at letting his anger spark against her flesh and set her alight as well. 

To distract her burning thoughts, she watched as the crannogmen seated before them passed along the trays of food, pausing to pile some on to their plates.  When the platters reached the end of the table, one would stand and deliver it to the last crannogmen at their head bench.  The custom was simple and respectful and Brienne realized she had not seen a single crannogmen who appeared to be a servant.  All had their tasks but none were at the mercy of their nobility. Yet her attention did not stray for long, called back not by his voice. 

"Brienne,” Jaime sighed into her ear.  “Thank you for taking care of me.” 

She held out a bowl of clear soup, with floating potatoes, leaves of some green, and peels of tough hide swimming below the surface.  She had taken little of any food, too horrified with the fear of heaving it up again, so she hardly noticed that Jaime had moved closer to her and was almost spooning broth over her lap.  As he set his cup down and took the bowl from her, she stared at her own mug and spoon, thinking of the times that she and Jaime had shared meals. Now there would be no need for him to sit by her. 

He was regarding her too carefully and she knew she must reply to his offer of peace between them.  "You would do the same for me," she whispered.  It was an echo of what she had told him before, bouncing off hollow walls ringing with his mocking reply. 

But this time, he merely arched a brow as he leaned over to spear a piece of carrot, not even needing to look at it to catch it, and rasped, "I would. And more." 

She could not fight the urge to hug her shivering chest as he continued to eye her, drawing the carrot to his mouth and darting out his tongue to wrap around it.  _He kissed me with those lips.  Not like I had ever imagined.  Better._ And she had run. 

Perhaps he had read her thoughts through her eyes, since Jaime smiled as he studied her and slowly chewed.  “It was worth the days of darkness to open my eyes to find you to be a supple and sighing maiden.” 

Brienne scoffed.  “You are mocking me.” She turned away and poured herself water from the jug nearby, biting her tongue as she stopped from continuing to fill Jaime’s cup as well. 

“Only a little,” Jaime chuckled.  He snatched the pitcher of wine instead, and took liberties in mixing some with her water after he had added a large portion to his mug.  “But I have no doubt if I keep kissing you enough, you shall find me to be an excellent sparring partner, as you once did.” 

“Jaime…” Her eyes darted around the room, wondering if anyone had caught handsome, confident, untrustworthy Jaime Lannister leaning in and whispering too familiarly with the ugly and stoic Maid of Tarth, wondering if they saw how she blushed, just a foolish girl falling for the words and whims of a man. And she _was_ falling.  And she was a fool. 

No one appeared to be interested in the two of them, though.  The hall was filled to bursting with conversations overlapping one another, voices drifting along, spiked with laughter and the chime of dishes.  Even Lady Mormont beside her was turned away, consumed with leaning over Ser Galbert while she tried to convince Lady Arya to pick up her strips of frog meat with her fork, rather than tear into it with her fingers. Amidst the den of noise, Brienne felt like an observer, watching in silence at the bustle.

But Jaime, despite having much more to see than her, was not interested in the crannogmen or the feast.  “You taste of sea spray and sweet earth, you know,” he breathed.  Brienne bit at her lip to keep her groan from his teasing and his proximity at bay and he puffed out what was in his lungs as he watched her do it, stirring her hair as he thankfully moved away. “You should be more careful about what you do now that I can see you.  I have a mind to steal you away from here to be the one nibbling at your mouth.” 

Immediately letting go with a gasp, she hissed, “Jaime.  You mustn’t.  Not here.” 

“And where did you have in mind, wench?” 

“No-nowhere,” she replied, taking a sip to calm her voice and her hands, though she forgot to expect the tang and buzz of the strong red wine. “The others will want to speak with you, after this.  A-about your sight returning.” 

“Why?” Jaime snorted.  “The men know already, since they found me dressing myself this morning. And I’m sure you told the rest. It changes nothing for them, besides gaining one more sword.” 

Brienne followed his stare to his right hand playing with the handle of his cup. He smiled as he watched it grip and uncurl at his command, never faltering from grasping the thin twist of metal. “You will fight for the Starks?” 

“No.” With a sigh, he released the mug and leaned back in his chair, letting his fingers run through his curls before moving to scratch his growing golden beard. _Like a restless beast._   “I killed Freys, and Boltons, Lannister allies, apparently, to get to you. And I bloody well followed you, blindly, for your vows.  So, I’ll fight to keep you alive, wench.  And if that means freezing my arse off in the north and saying ‘yes, my lady’ to a Stark,” he shrugged.  “I’ve done worse.” 

He may have done worse, but it seemed always to be for a greater good. And the confusion and excitement that stirred in Brienne muted out the quaking uncertainties humming beneath her skin, allowing her to reach her hand out beneath the table and find his palm resting on his thigh, taking it and squeezing it lightly. Jaime gave her an arched look as his lips twitched with a victorious smile.  But he did not goad her further.  Rewarding her for her bravery, he firmly held her hand, using his right to take a drink, swallowing the taunts she had nervously expected. 

They eventually had to break apart to pass the last of the food and dessert, which consisted of an assortment of lemon confections to please Lady Sansa and her love of sweets.  Brienne only handed them along as she swiped the sweat from her brow with the square of linen by her plate.  But she could not help but watch the small cakes Jaime took, sucking the pad of his thumb to catch the stickiness that had dripped from the pastry.  As he popped his finger between his lips to do the same, he noticed her staring and grinned around the nail.  With a cough, Brienne tore her gaze away, though she was hounded by his rumbling laugh. 

As the feast began to quiet, some of the crannogmen took their plates and the empty or discarded platters and carried them out with them, leaving in groups or individually, all seeming to head towards the kitchens.  It was with relief that Brienne realized the head table was also breaking apart, with Lord Howland and Ser Galbert offering their arms to the Starks. 

“Come,” Jaime said as he stood, taking in her plate of untouched food just as it, too, was taken away.  She felt him roll his eyes when she hesitated and peered at Lady Mormont, who had risen and was making towards her daughter.  “No one will notice, or care, if you leave with me.” 

Brienne frowned at that.  She had been excused for her inappropriate behavior with Jaime because of his need for help. But if all knew that he was capable again, what would be her reasons for sneaking in to dark corners with him? And the blithe tone he had used for dragging a maiden in to the shadows also niggled at the base of her back.  _He’s done this before. This is all he knows, slinking away._  

With that thought, Brienne pushed away from the table and rounded on him. “You may have enjoyed such games with your… _sister_ , Ser Jaime, but I am not so easily persuaded into…liaisons.” She tried to lace the words with venom, to force out her resistance to falling in to the same patterns he had always known.  But, in truth, they were her archetypes as well, the hiding and the world created in the gloom, away from everyone else.  

“ _Liaisons_?” Jaime snorted. 

Before he could throw back his head and shake his mane and laugh at her, and she could see him starting, a snarling smile curling his lips and wrinkling his eyes, she turned away and stomped down the nearest hallway. She was heading in the opposite direction of the chambers, she knew, but she could not make herself go back when she heard him call after her.  Increasing the length of her steps, she sped through courtyards, the walls expanding the closer she got to one of the edges of Greywater Watch, which she was grateful for, considering how heavily she was breathing now. 

But her aimless flight had not deterred, nor lost, Jaime. He quickly found her leaning against an archway and staring out into the green glade, towering, majestic trees exploding from the water and bursting with leaves, all hugged with rolling mist.  Sighing, she did not flinch when Jaime rounded on her again, blocking her view with roaring fury sparking his eyes like wildfire and his teeth bared.  But when he took a large step towards her, crowding her space, overwhelming her with his burning rage melting the memories of his arms around her, his lips tracing wet licks of fire, she retreated. 

“Don’t you _dare_ think that you can mention my family and push me away and then just _leave_ ,” he rumbled.  He slammed his hand against the moss-covered wall by her ear, blocking her from easily escaping back up the hall.  “Gods, I’m so tired of chasing after you.” 

“Then, don’t,” Brienne snapped.  The wounded look in his eyes, tempering the sizzle of anger, was a familiar expression to her and her heart stuttered as she gazed upon the flash of sudden pain. “I’m _not_ her.  I don’t expect you to come.” 

“That’s why I have to,” he said as he dropped his arm by his side and moved closer. This time, she did not startle away. “That’s why I want to.” 

He was following her lips opening and closing as she took in sharp breaths and fought to form words, licking his own and calling her attention to the way his plump mouth rose from the lined skin, leathered with age and sun but still pulled taught along his cheeks, and the glinting daggers of silver and gold that was his beard.  Brienne tentatively stepped towards him, drawn like a fly to the mesmerizing gleam of torches in the night.  The movement caused him to stare into her eyes, blinking the soft lashes that framed his regard like wheat edging a pool, so deep that she found herself dipping in to it, just to be pulled to the bottom, never to care, nor want, for air again. 

“Brienne,” he sighed.  It was a shock to hear her name reverentially whispered, like its utterance could heal and save and transform, the sound as sweet as the memory of her mother’s fingers sinking in to her hair and as wicked and exciting as sneaking out of her rooms to watch the knights spar. 

It filled her with strength and courage, just as much as the stories that had fed her mind and her heart as a child.  She boldly reached out just as he did, sliding in to the circle of his arms while he tried to cover his surprise by eagerly wrapping her up tight against his chest.  Looking up at her, Jaime tilted his head, but made no move to draw closer to her lips. And, by then, Brienne was too hungry for his taste, for the matching beats of the blood coursing through their separate bodies, longing to merge as one, and for the sharing of their breaths, to worry or fear for displaying her fervor for him. 

She grasped his sharp jaw with her large hands, dropping her head to capture his bottom lip, pressing hard and sucking lightly, though she was not sure that was what she was supposed to do.  The moan that ran up his throat and clattered against her teeth suggested she was learning, however, and she thrilled when he used his other lip to pry open her mouth and slip his darting tongue inside without any warning besides his crushing grip that brought his hip against the flesh above her thighs. 

Pulling herself away, she gulped in humid air, but she still clung to him as words of concern and care began working the tongue that had been teasing her terribly moments ago.  Before he could ask, she tangled her thick fingers in the loose curls at his neck and pulled him back against her.  Instead of attacking her mouth, he sprinkled lips and teeth along her neck and collar, making her shiver from the fluctuation of hard and needful with lazy and sweet. 

“You aren’t running from the feel of a man mad for you,” Jaime whispered as he nipped and licked at her ear, making her tremble wantonly enough that she had to lean back against the wall to support herself.  Jaime followed, pressing firmly to her and causing another groan to shudder from his mouth to the pulse at her throat. 

“You aren’t running from what I look like,” Brienne tried to chuckle, but it turned in to a gasp when he kissed her mouth again to quiet her japes. 

He released her, though she was still swimming, floating and buoyant, tethered to the anchor of his hold.  Despite being able to peer past his head, Jaime thoroughly surrounded her enough, with the force of his kisses, the heat of his body, and the scent of his sweat and his desire, that she was a small thing, easily fitting in this world that was just the two of them. 

“I’m going to keep looking at you, Brienne,” he replied between spreading fire with his wandering fingertips and cooling the burn with his breath. “I’m going to keep touching you. I’m going to make you feel as no one has ever made you feel before and I plan to be the only one that will ever do that.” She hid her face in his neck as he continued murmuring his soft and feral promises, blushing from how his words sunk to find a home between her hips. Clinging to his tunic and trying not to whimper, he would not let up.  “Don’t run from me because of that.  I won’t do anything you don’t want, either.” 

 _But what do I want? What is he offering me? He can’t possibly mean to take me…fully._ “Jaime,” she stuttered. 

“Not now,” he quickly murmured soothingly.  “Just this now.” 

And _this_ was all that she could focus on as Jaime lifted her chin to kiss her again.  He was the languid pull of an eddy, letting her follow how his lips claimed each of her own, as well as the corners of her mouth, how he would use his teeth when it was not enough, how his tongue was a pledge of the way he would consume her.  Then, he was the crash of a violent storm, pulling her along in swelling waves of need as she lost all footing in their embrace and was swept up in bruising grips and demanding kisses.

They had been teetering on this precipice for a long time, Brienne realized, wavering towards plummeting when they had parted after King Renly’s death. But the snare of everything else, duty and family and fear, had kept them balancing the blade. Now, Brienne did not know when her feet would land, though there was still the familiar tug of her vows, of her honor, rolling in her stomach.  However, she allowed herself to only consider Jaime’s touch at that moment, the shedding of their titles and their worries, like summer skin, to be nothing but comfort for all that they had endured. 

And she did not run.  



	23. The Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has been reading and supporting this story! It means a lot! I had a bit of a fumble since this is my first time writing anything more than kissing and I'm learning as I go.
> 
> That process is largely due to Coraleeveritas. I really can't express how amazing she is. She keeps me focused on the style that I write in but continues to help me grow while never making me feel floundering or alone. She has been with me every step of the way in this story. I've said it before but she has put just as much as I have into this and she deserves so much gratitude for her time, her love, and her talent. I am forever thankful to call her my dear friend.
> 
> Sandwichesyumyum is also another wealth of knowledge. She has been so kind in taking the time to read these chapters and if only I could share her notes because they are some of the best advice and kindest words I could receive. I only wish to show her the encouragement and care she never ceaselessly gives me.
> 
> This chapter being posted at all is in part due to Tamjlee. It never ceases to amaze me how she knows just what to say to put my head back on right, to guide me, to understand me, and to support me. And the trust I place in her is limitless. I can never thank her enough, but I will try every day.
> 
> And YellowDelaney gave me such a special gift by taking the time to look over this chapter. I am a huge fan of her works and to have this talented writer and amazing person read over a part of this story is an honor. She was a great help in getting me to refine this so I felt better about posting.
> 
> That being said, any mistakes or missteps are my fault. Enjoy!

It was a sweet torture to see the daylight cut through leaves and moss and mirrors, brightening the castle and letting Jaime discover every corner of Greywater Watch, waiting for the moonlight and spray of stars to guide his path to the hidden crevices into which he could pull Brienne. She gasped pleasing protests as he would catch her roaming the halls or yank her in to the shadows as they walked together.  Despite her breathy murmurs, she would not release her fists, so tightly bunched in his tunic that he could hear the seams straining over the blood roaring in his head. He could spend his time soaking in the sights robbed from him for too long, but it was when he closed his eyes, when her nose was bumping against his cheek and her tongue was slowly working around the frenzy of his own, when he could smell the rich earth in her hair and the sweet musk on her skin, that he craved. 

Jaime still enjoyed watching her step away from him, with her hair a wild nest and her skin blown up like a rash, breathing heavily and gnawing at her frayed lips with protruding teeth.  The others would see her as such, a young, blushing thing, made uglier by her hunched, shy shoulders and the loss of her vibrant blue gaze as she stared at her large feet. With his crumpled tunic and wide grin, he doubted he appeared any better.  They would all know what the Kingslayer and his wench would do when they disappeared.  And it made him strut. 

But there were only a few short days, and not nearly enough time for such stolen moments, before the crannogmen would be prepared to leave for Moat Cailin. They had already sent out a handful of small boats to carve the path through the swamps for the larger party, nearing just one hundred strong.  The rest would follow soon after, planning to meet at the fortress only once it had been secured.  He and Brienne would be among the first wave that would take back the stronghold of the Neck for the Starks. 

As the drumming of war began to beat in his fingertips again, Jaime became eager to practice before he found himself with sharpened steel under his command and a foe before his feet, just as much as he was keen to take back his position of Brienne’s sparring partner.  So, the day before they left, he found himself carrying two wooden swords to the hall where Reed gathered all but the Lannister men.  She would be expecting him, since his restless steps seemed to always meander towards this door to wait for her. 

He was not surprised to find the Hound already wagging his tail and panting in the humid air beside the entrance.  Clegane was stripped down to his linens and he was even sweating through those, revealing a dark mat of fur beneath, but he had still shoved his strips of lank black hair over the twisted side of his face.  When Jaime approached, he remained leaning against a moss-covered wall, arms crossed, and cloudy gaze staring at a crack in the tiles. He did not move even as Jaime placed himself on the other end of the hallway, facing the door. 

“Holding up another wall?” Jaime sliced through the silence. 

Clegane snorted without turning towards him.  “I see your loyalty wasn’t to your family but to where your cock leads you.” 

“Isn’t that why _you_ are standing here?” 

“Fuck if I know what the hell I’m doing anymore,” Clegane ground out, shaking his head.  “These Starks ain’t got any gold.  Hells, they don’t even have a hold.” 

“Maybe not,” Jaime replied. “But they can be a problem for my family…and yours.” 

“Nothing I have left is called family,” the Hound spat. 

 _Mine’s not what I had always thought it was_.  Jaime looked towards the door.  “So, then we fight.” 

“I was doing that regardless.” 

The doors opened then, but Jaime knew to wait until the lords and ladies had all milled out before the towering, hulking form of Brienne would appear. He remained lounging against the wall, tapping the ends of the swords against his crossed boots, as Reed escorted Sansa Stark, green and grays swirling together as his legs kicked up her skirts.  The clank of Maege Mormont's morningstar followed as she moved a sullen, growling Arya Stark with a firm, leathery hand on the girl’s thin shoulder. 

When Clegane moved from the shadows of the door, Sansa immediately noticed him taking his place a few steps behind the group.  Her eyes darted quickly over his form before roses bloomed on her cheeks and she turned away.  But her sister wiggled away from the she-bear to run circles around the Hound, a pup yipping and demanding as she complained of his perspiring, while Sansa snapped and snarled for her to heel. 

Arya was distracted, however, when she caught sight of the practice swords bouncing by Jaime's hip.  "You're going to spar, Kingslayer?" 

"Ser Jaime," Sansa pertly corrected. 

"I bet I could beat you," Arya continued, the confidence of a youth fuelling her words.  "My brother, Jon, gave me a sword." Clegane snorted at that, earning him a "quiet, dog." 

"Sandor Clegane," Sansa barked at her.  They proceeded further down the hall, starting to slip out of hearing, though Jaime could still catch Sansa's prim, young voice still attempting to quietly reprimand her sister.  "Arya, for the last time, you are _not_ fighting." 

"But that's what I'm good at," the little wolf replied. Jaime thought she may have been right, after seeing the storm of chaos in her gaze and the beat of battle clipping her steps.  " _You_ can be the lady." 

"My daughter took to spear and bow, Lady Sansa," Reed interjected, surprising them all.  "I could teach Lady Arya." 

Just then, Jaime spotted a sway of straw in his periphery and he turned to find Brienne and Dacey were the last to leave the hall.  The wench turned a deep crimson when she found him waiting, though he thought she should expect him by now.  Perhaps the rush of heat was for the slow smile on Dacey as she gave him a long look and then hurried her steps to meet the rest of the party, leaving the two alone in the corridor. 

"Look what I finally managed to find," he told Brienne as he waved a sword in each hand. 

She smiled, making Jaime’s blood course quickly at how easily she gave it to him, though he was still having to gradually peel back the layers of her lust. “It would be good to stretch.” The constant, sticky dampness had seemed to wash any color from her skin, her bright eyes turning wan and drooping. It seemed the extended stay in the swamp had not agreed with her, though he was sure they would be missing it in the frigid north. 

“And it’s been a long time since we’ve sparred,” he replied, handing her one of the blunted pieces of whittled wood. 

As he moved closer, he slipped his free hand around her back and felt the flesh beneath her tunic ripple away from his touch.  With a gasp and a glance at the group that was still visible, she stepped out of his reach, shyly murmuring his name as a reprimand, though his ears merely perceived it as a tempting song.  Her previous scathing accusations, that he would try to fall into the same jagged and treacherous patterns with her as he had leapt into with his sister, still echoed in his mind.  But whenever he tried to touch her when they were not alone, she would prance away like a skittish horse, as much fearful for how the others might perceive them as she was nervous about what he might do.  Though she had relented with walking closely together, Jaime could not sate his hunger with mere brushes of skin.  And so, he feasted on her kisses in the dark recesses, wishing once more for the light. 

The muggy dawn had turned into a brilliant, sunny morning as they strolled slowly through the castle, searching out an open spot for them to be able to move in. Their fingers fumbled and collided as they squeezed down the narrow hallways, snaring and staying as they teased and toyed with this new freedom.  Eventually, though, they found that the keep was efficiently designed, with not a breath of needless space.  They ended up standing outside the walls, with a wide expanse of young vegetation at their calves and sometimes up to their hips, before the massive reed raft fell off into the murky jade waters. 

Amongst a calm rivulet meandering through the tall, thick columns of trunks flaking peels of tan bark, the sound of birds and the crunch of foliage, Jaime stepped out onto the mossy base rising up from the bed.  The tender growths gave way supplely under his toes and he easily gathered his footing.  Brienne was doing the same, her pale skin soaking in the lush colors of the swamp, dew drops of sweat sprouting between her smattering of freckles. But the rigid strings in her body that kept her clunking and cowering in her beastly shape quickly melted in the heat, coursing into the sword in her hand, wood or no, leaving her a lithe giant that swam and swayed in the humid air. 

He grinned, watching her heft the weight of the sword as she shifted amongst the grasses, a lion weaving through the brush, and he lifted his own to greet her, just as he had done many times before, but long ago.  “Are you ready, wench?” 

“Ready,” she replied, with a wave of wood. 

They took heavy steps to come together, eager to stretch their muscles and to settle into the familiar dance of death.  But Jaime thrilled at the fantasy of Brienne being just as hurried and enthusiastic to launch herself at him in a frenzy of desire.  So when she raised her wooden blade to test him, he knocked it aside and moved into her exposed torso, wrapping his free arm around her. 

She was a gasp and a twist, gracefully spinning out of his grasp before he could kiss her, though her azure eyes darted to study his face as she kept her distance and stood in another fighting position.  With a wink, Jaime approached, aiming to strike low. But he noticed the quick twitch of Brienne’s lips as she predicted his move and cut down his sword, sending the point into the raft, using her momentum to slam an elbow in to his side. 

“That was hardly a _knightly_ maneuver,” he huffed a laugh as he pranced away and raised his sword with a wince. Even in the Twins, expecting to feel the cold wash of his own blood drown him, he had never felt so exhilarated as when he faced Brienne with swords between them.  It made him chuckle and smile like the boy he had once been long ago.  Yet the strain in his breeches reminded him he was a man, with an enticing morsel before him. 

“It could save me from a blade in my belly, though,” she murmured with a shrug. 

“Brienne…” he started, stepping back towards her. 

Shaking her head and retreating, she motioned for him to come again. He did, the sudden flash of dark memories in her mind swirling her gaze to violent seas, stalling his advance. She had expected him to charge her front, like before, but Jaime dipped around her, kicking out her knee and making her grunt as she kneeled.  _Gods, she is a marvel with a weapon. Does she realize how much I need her as mine?_  

He snatched her upper arm, pulling her against him to hiss in her ear. “You are the best, remember? There will be no sword piercing you.” He chuckled and kissed her lobe, letting the touch and her gasped inhale harden him further. “Well, not a sharp one, anyway.” 

“You have not beat me yet,” she snapped, muffling a cough. And suddenly, her large hands were knots of linen as she reached up and wound her fingers in the back of his tunic. With a snort, she yanked him over her shoulder and slammed him flat to the raft. 

Before she could lift her sword to point at his throat, he rolled away and scrambled to his feet, though his cock was calling for him to crawl in the other direction and let her take him.  “Brienne, it’s not as much fun if you don’t understand the japes.” 

“We are not here to play, Jaime,” she retorted as she stood. “We are here to prepare. This isn’t like before.” 

They began again, the sound of wood against wood a dull thud sucked in by the wet air, dampened by the swell of the water flowing against the castle’s raft and the rustles of leaves in the warm breeze.  Out here, Jaime could pretend that they were truly isolated in a haven untouched by war.  But then their swords would meet again and they would thrust and parry to save their lives. The beats in between, though, filled with exhausted breaths and vicious grunts, were the welcome spark of a new fantasy for Jaime, thoughts of Brienne’s strength melting in to desires to feel her under him.  Even though she remained more powerful than most knights Jaime had fought, she was beginning to drop her sword more quickly than usual, breathing just a bit too heavily, and sweating profusely. 

“We will have a fortnight to practice, as well as a fortnight of being constantly surrounded by others.” He smiled and raised his brow, watching how Brienne had to look away as he slid towards her.  “We should take advantage of our time alone, since you’re right. This _isn’t_ like before.” To show her, he darted in to her space and pressed his lips against hers, hurrying away with greater swiftness than her swipe of her sword could catch his hip. 

She did not relent, though, still pacing him as he danced away and batted off her attempts to find the weakness in his defense.  “That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know,” he sighed, earning him a rap on his arm as she managed to hit him when he tried to snatch her free hand.  _I know.  We almost lost it all.  Can’t you see? We can’t let it happen again._   “It will only slow you down if you think about it.” 

“You’ve already been hurt.” She lunged, greedy for another touch, but Jaime skirted away and circled once more to her back, using his lighter form to try to reach her blind spot before she turned.  Now, she merely fell to her knee again and used the diversion to swipe at his legs.  With a handful of quick steps, he maneuvered out of her range and managed to slam his weapon down on hers, near the hilt so that she was jarred from the shock. 

“But I’m still alive.” Using her teetering stance, he kicked her side, hoping she would let go of her sword.  But she took it with her as she rolled.  “And all of this wrestling in the grass is certainly helping remind me of that.” _And I plan to remind you as well_. 

Brienne spun her big blue eyes around in her head and lunged towards him. He was enjoying getting to touch her too much to try to block her with his wooden blade again, so he surrendered his defenses, letting her tap him on his chest, in order to encase her in his arms and shove them both down to the mossy earth.  With twin puffs of breath, as they both lost the air beneath their ribs, they landed hard, Jaime having to lift his hips away from her to keep from showing his excitement. 

The feel of her beneath him was a maddening rush of blood.  There were no cushions for his chest to land on, only flat torso, but his hand found surprising softness above her hip and her muscled thighs gave as she squeezed his legs pressed between them.  Out of instinct, she had grabbed hold of him and now her hands were wrapped around his neck and her head was tucked carefully in the crease to his shoulder, his fingers laced in her hair to make sure she did not injure herself on the ground. 

This was the first time since he had opened his eyes and was able to see that they had been so tangled in each other, that Jaime had been given enough time to savor the slide of her body against his and the wild beating of her heart knocking on his chest.  Turning his nose to nuzzle at her temple, he smelled the tang and salt of her sweat over the clinging cleanliness of her soap and the sweet call of her untasted flesh. A small moan rose up his throat when she squirmed and tightened her hold, letting himself finally rest all of his weight on her, making her feel his desire and his heaviness. 

“Jaime,” she warned.  She weakly tried to buck him off but that only settled him more firmly between the peaks and valleys of her solid body. 

“You are still an impressive opponent,” he rasped in her ear, slithering down her form as he moved to kiss her neck and collar.  “And I’m finding you to be one in all kinds of new ways.” 

“Someone could see,” she pressed, though she was shifting to give his lips and tongue and teeth access to the thick column of her pale, freckled throat. The way she would fight with him even when she was yielding was a new joy for Jaime, the thought of how she could shift from maiden to warrior in a blink, just for him, commanding the hammering of his heart. 

He hummed into her skin as his fingertips trailed up and down her sides. “Is that how you learned about what happens between a man and a woman?” 

“What? N-no.” She gasped when one of his hands left her stomach and skated up her torso to run over her flat chest, sprouting a small, pert nipple from her muscled trunk. 

“In the camps, then? Perhaps you heard the men talk about their conquests?” 

“ _Conquests_?” she snapped, trying to squirm out of his grip.  “I am not a conquest-“ 

“And I’m not a fool boasting about a camp follower,” he interjected as he pulled her back under him.  “But if that and your septa is all you’ve had to teach you of the bed, then I think you’ve missed all the fun parts.” He smiled down at her, watching her bite her lip and look at the canopy above as she fought the blush on her cheeks. 

“I know enough,” she finally replied. 

“Let’s find out, then,” he whispered.  They had been teasing each other for kisses long enough.  Watching Brienne come alive again with sword in hand, he did not think he could not last another day without showing her what they could truly be. 

“J-Jaime, we can’t,” she stuttered as he regretfully pulled himself from the cocoon of her limbs.  She curled into her body immediately, but he grabbed her hand, before she could tuck it under her other arm, and tugged.  “You don’t have to do this.” It took all of his strength and a firm stance to pull her up off the moss, as she was simply limp from the shock of the suggestion. But the need to find just how far the splatter of freckles dipped to her belly and the building heat beneath her legs, warming from him and him alone, was enough for him to set his boots and his resolve.  “What are we doing?” 

When she was finally standing, he wove his fingers back through her hair and pulled her down to his mouth.  He pressed hard enough to bruise, nipping sharp enough to bleed, pressing himself fully against her enough that the flesh on her stomach yielded to the press of his cock. And then, he stepped back, taking her hand again and dragging her towards the archway leading to the castle. If she had a moment to think and burrow herself under the layers of fear and memories that had kept her from him, he may not be able to dig her out again.  So, he pulled her along at a run before the concerns could chase them down. 

“What is it you were taught, that the men take their pleasure and the women are left bereft and bleeding?” he asked, sparing a glance back to find her lips swollen from his brutal press of his own against them, parted and gasping. “Did you hear the knights in camp talk about the taste, the warmth, the moans that drove them to such gratification?” He tried the first door he found, once they were hurrying down a hallway, but it was filled with parsnips. 

“It was not my place to listen,” Brienne snapped back.  She grunted as she was wracked with a fit of dry wheezes. 

With another look at her, Jaime saw the frustration ignite in her eyes and he grinned at the contest building, biting his lip and savoring the lingering flavor of her mouth, as he released her hand and she stopped. “No.  It’s hardly for a lady’s ears.  I’m sure, then, you don’t know how a woman may lay with a lord and still maintain her…honor.” _Focus on my words, Brienne.  Don’t think. Come with me._ The next door he opened was a small dining hall big enough for only three long tables and benches. “Don’t you want to learn how my tongue and fingers can make you feel and forget?” 

As he continued on, he held his breath until he heard the shuffle and stomp of her feet as she followed him.  “Nothing can make me forget that day at the Twins, Jaime.”  

Finally, he came to a small chamber, which contained a cot thankfully bigger than his own, though the blankets and pillows looked moth eaten and dusty, and a small trunk.  There was no table or fireplace, but light was streaming through a tall window at the top of the room, reaching high to snatch the sun, the rays reflecting off a wood framed mirror on the opposite wall.  

“Maybe, but I can make you remember we survived it.” He stepped inside, noticing the metal latch by his shoulder, and stripped from the tunic he was sweating through, tossing it to the corner.  There was a whisper of fabric brushing against the entrance and the soft trundle of feet as Brienne snuck in behind him, her movements still slow and unsure. Though she could not see, he smiled and took slow progress to the bed, letting her take in his naked chest, slick from their sparring and illuminated from the brilliant sunlight, highlighting his shifting muscles as he sat down at the head of the cot. Every moment that she shed her cold and retreated gaze, looking at him with desire instead, was a moment that sped and stuttered Jaime’s heart, racing with the knowledge that this strong maiden could want a battered, old knight like him. 

When he turned to her, she was a shadow against the wall, pressed close to the moss covering the wood and with her heel still dipping out in to the hall as she jangled her legs nervously.  Her teeth were yanking at the ropes of skin peeling from her bottom lip while she darted glimpses of his torso beneath her eyelids, making Jaime wonder how many times she had seen a man nearly nude.  

“Close the door, Brienne,” he said, marveling at the deepness of his voice, laced with a heady need to watch her move to do as he bid. 

She hesitated though, letting herself look at him directly.  “What happens if I do?” 

“Do you enjoy me talking so much that I need to narrate?” he grinned. 

Instead of the groan of frustration or challenge in her eyes that he expected, her expression crumpled into a youthful, frightened girl, smudged with dirt from their tussle, hair spiking from sweat, and blemished skin ripe with blushes. But then she stepped away from the wall, squaring her shoulders to his smiles and his temptations. “What is this, really, Jaime, a way to celebrate your sight?” 

He huffed and growled, rubbing his eyes in the hopes that it would move around the blood keeping him erect and impatient.  “I’m not planning on taking your precious maidenhead, if that’s what concerns your innocent mind, wench.” 

“I have a right-“ 

“ _This_ is not letting our time go to waste again,” he barreled over her demanding protests, standing so he did not have to look up at her too much, and not letting the catch in her chest and the slide of her eyes as he approached be ignored.  “ _This_ is doing what we want.  I have no one to guide my hand anymore and I’m not reaching for you out of dependence, if that’s what is concerning you, though it’s always been with _need_. And by the Seven, if I’m going to kneel to a Stark, it’s going to be with the taste of you on my mouth.” 

“We are leaving to take Moat Cailin soon.” In a moment that stopped his heart and stretched until he thought he would not live to see it end, Brienne extended her arm and reached for the edge of the door, shutting it and letting the lock catch. 

“Come here,” he groaned, opening himself to her.    

She crashed against him, a solid barrier of beating heart and fevered flesh. Jaime dipped his hands beneath her tunic and absorbed the trace of her muscled skin while they kissed, soaking in the feel of her.  “We will fight,” she ground out around the breathless catch in her voice that was driving him mad in his unfettered lust.  “We will protect. We will die doing it, if we must. I know that.  I’ve always known that.  But I don’t know if I can w _atch_.” When he raked his fingernails down her back and sucked at a hollow on her shoulder that caught her scent, Brienne swallowed a moan and clung to him.  

He turned them, dancing as they had done with sword and words and bodies, and worked to shuffle her towards the cot.  In his growling fervor to rip the fabric keeping him from running his mouth over her chest, though, she pulled away.  In her bewilderment, she managed to knock into the bed as she clumsily retreated right into where he wanted her to be. 

“I can’t crawl up that massive figure this time, Brienne,” he snarled with a quick palm to quiet his ardor.  “You’re going to have to lay down for this.  So that _I_ can watch.” 

She had been studying him too intently to miss one of his hands flash over his breeches, her throat working as she glanced down before looking back up to meet his eyes.  He knew, had to chant it to himself, of the worries that were chewing away at her thoughts, just as she was eating her plump lips and making him itch to feel her mouth all over him, that he had to be slow and patient.  It was a different world and a different woman.   

Brienne worked her mouth, struggling to tame her tongue in order to speak her heart, wrapped as it was in memories of war and bets and loss. She carefully sat, wincing at the protest of the thin bed beneath her heavy form.  But he would not let her think too much.  As soon as she had begun to fidget, he was joining her, fervently replacing her anxieties with his lips, kissing her temple, her broken nose, the cluster of freckles behind her ear, and rubbing her raw with his beard against her cheek and down her neck.  He was light headed with the taste of her, dizzy from the way she ran her large palms up and down his arms while he inched up her chest, hoping to make her too drunk from his touch to jolt at his perusal of her breasts. 

“I haven’t even begun to touch you yet,” he murmured into her ear with a hand pushing her shoulder and his other one trying to pull her opposite leg up on the bed. “Have your breasts ached when I am around? Have you thought about my fingers around your nipples?” 

“I do not have a body for that, Jaime,” she replied while she let him guide her onto her back.  He snorted indignantly when she smoothed her rumpled tunic back down to her waist. “I’m sure you’re used to larger…breasts.” 

The surge of anger at her mention of any other woman softened his cock some. But he did not let Brienne push him away with what must be clanging around in that mulish, apprehensive head of hers. Instead, he released his ire into her skin, nipping and nibbling at her throat and each inch of her exposed chest as he hastily tore at the laces at the top of her tunic with his teeth. He shoved up the end of it with quick hands and immediately palmed pink, budded nipples that rose from a swell small enough to belong to a maiden just bloomed.  The bursts of more freckles and the sunrise of blushes over her hard muscles was a new terrain for his eager hands and hungry eyes. 

“What I want is a stubborn wench that is making trouble for me to get under her clothes,” he sighed as he gently, as gently as he could, kissed those tightening nipples.  “Despite her body calling to me.” 

“Oh, that feels…” Her voice trailed off into a sigh and hitch as she held her breath when his kisses turned to suckles and his palms rushed to the top of her breeches. 

“Nice?” he finished before he moved to her other breast and added rakes of his teeth to the suction of his ardent mouth.  The ridges of her skin were a wild texture on his tongue and he dug in to taste her mewling responses, though she was fighting to not make a sound. “Let go, Brienne. It’s just me.  You’ve seen me take a piss, after all.”       

She huffed a laugh as he lifted himself up on his hands and knees, bracing his arms by her shoulders and straddling her thighs, looking down at the mess of fabric under her neck.  His cock jerked at the glistening buds he had wetted and the curve of her stomach as she gasped and trembled.  Her hair was a spray against the pillows and her hands were nothing but balls of twisted sheets wrapped around her fists.  He had planned to bask in the way she felt beneath him, but his body was demanding that he kiss her and rub against her and make her moan, make her his. _Now._  

Dipping down, Jaime smiled as she raised her head to meet him for a kiss and it was only a small battle to gain entrance into her mouth that time, his tongue running along her teeth.  “Touch me,” he begged. 

He should have laughed when she stole a glance at his manhood straining between them, but he only shook his head, releasing his hair from behind his ears. “Not there,” he regretfully told her. “Not yet.” 

Finally understanding, Brienne reached up with a quiver of fingers and tucked his curls away, sliding her nails through his beard as she moved to cradle his cheek.  He sighed at the sweet contact, moving to nip and kiss the tips of her hand as he had once done. With the courage of familiar touches guiding her, she continued on to press her warm palm against the hard planes of his upper chest, matting his hair.  Jaime was sure she must have been able to feeling the hammering of his heart, laboring to rip through his ribs and nestle in her hand.  

She stroked him as if she was already aware of his secret weaknesses, finding where his tanned skin thinned and she could press heat and tingles closer to his core. She could not even know how her naive caresses were building a fire inside him that Jaime wanted to burn to ash in. Then, coaxed by his moans and his ardent kisses lavishing her large frame, her other fist appeared from the pile of blanket and worked its way up his arm and to his shoulder. When he arched in to her palms, she slid her way back down, exploring the rough hairs on his belly. The flames spreading from her tentative touch were coursing along his body now, curling even his toes, and he closed his eyes, tilting his head back. 

“Gods, that feels much more than nice,” he grunted. 

“Does it?” He brought his gaze back to regard her as she looked surprised and curious as she watched him, while still teasing him with her burning fingertips. There was not a glimmer of knowing or salaciousness, not a coy smile, nor a sneering smirk. Brienne was a wriggling body of inquisitiveness and timidity, open as if he could read all her thoughts. 

“Mmmmm,” he nodded as he pushed off his hands so that he could settle between the cool wall and his flushed wench, keeping his body partly over her so she could turn to look at him, dark orbs eclipsing and consuming the blue waters. “Your turn.” 

“For what?” 

Jaime chuckled, which caused her to frown and scowl at him. “Do you know why your smallclothes are damp when you think of me? Why you have to rub your legs together to cool your desire? Why you feel _empty_?” 

“Of course,” she snapped, glaring, challenging.  _She’s seen men fucking anything they can find in the camps, bored or afraid or angry_. _She’s been told of ladies bundling up their maidenheads like a cyvasse piece, for husband, for house, for duty.  Never_ this _._   

Jaime finally succumbed to the overpowering need to keep touching her and he scoured her skin with his fingers, teasing the edge of her breeches again. She startled and squirmed, trying to consider where this moment settled amidst the little she truly knew. “Yes? Then, you know it’s for me.” He dipped beneath, running his palm against slick, sweat soaked flesh while his knuckles brushed rough linen above and he just caught the edges of a coarse bundle of hair.  “It’s your big body wanting mine inside of you, to make it easy…” he groaned when he reached lower to feel the wet heat emanating between her tightly closed thighs. “So easy for me to slide right in. And it’s for you, to enjoy what I will do to you.” 

Brienne screwed her eyes closed, scrunching her ridged nose and bundling up her freckles as she turned her head away from him, breathing hard and squeezing the blankets.  She gasped as Jaime wriggled his fingers between her strong legs.  Feeling jagged gooseflesh raise thin, soft hairs and the velvety skin wrapped around her taut muscles, trembling from being kept together, he absorbed the resilient and the delicate edges of her while making his way to the folds and curls dewy with her pleasure.  

“You can’t be thinking about Renly,” he hissed against her chin as he gritted his teeth for control and fought for her to give in to him. “ _I’m_ the one that came with you.  _I’m_ the one to touch you. He could never have made you this needy.” 

It was with a snarl of hunger and success when he could finally slide along the slickness between her hips, her legs falling open for him. He impatiently rubbed the length of her, wetting his fingers and watching the creases on her forehead relax as he carried her along, searching for the spots that made her sigh and the ones that led to a cry being smothered in her throat. 

“Look at me,” he demanded through the knot of desire and ache swirling in his gut. She did so tentatively, her blue eyes a frenzy as she fought to keep her breathing steady. But, now that he had started, he would not let up from spinning threads of dew round the loom of the hair between her legs.  

“Jaime,” she murmured, lost and edging towards a precipice she had yet to realize. 

Pushing her to let go completely, he kissed her hard, yanking her from the focus of his palm pressing against her, ripping her away from fear and worries as he ran his tongue along hers, sucking and biting at her lips. With clumsy fervor, noses bumping and teeth clashing, Brienne tried to match him, struggling to breathe through her nostrils as she pressed back and her hips lifted to let him dive inside. 

“Good, Brienne,” he groaned as he pressed his cock flush to her side and let the twitching undulations of her hips rub against him, providing precious moments of temporary relief.  

She was weeping steadily now, nectar catching in her petals for him to capture when he worked inside of her as she discovered what she liked, recoiling when he pressed too hard or ignored her bud for too long. It was a slow churn of the sea, the tide a drag without urgency, uncovering new prizes beneath the water and hiding in the grains of sand.  And when he had reached as far as the foamy white edge would let him, he gladly let the waves of want claim the damp surfaces again.  Over and over he plunged into her, faster and harsher as his own pleasure rode with her, regretting the pull and matching her keens at every dive. 

“I _do_ want to forget,” she whispered when he tore away from her lips to nip down her neck. She barely flinched when he added another finger to drive in and draw out, the pads of the tips etching the rippling, supple walls inside her while her cloying dampness pruned his skin. 

“No,” he growled into her ear, licking and biting at the lobe and making her shiver continuously. “Don’t forget.” It was worship of mouth and hand, a prayer that circled from below her belly down to her stem, filling in the in between.  

“I can’t…I need-“ 

“Remember,” he pressed as he gave in to his own desires and brushed against her side in order to keep himself from spilling on the sheets. He did not stop his assault of her, though, slipping and sliding along her folds and giving just enough pressure to make her rise to meet him the rest of the way, even while he ran his bare chest against her stomach and breasts and the bundle of tunic gathered at her neck.  “Don’t run away. Don’t close your eyes. This isn’t some dream, Brienne. We’re here.  We’re alive.” 

The sound of fabric whispering against Brienne’s writhing body, her stifled moans dying in her throat, and the dip of his fingers churning in her passion melted and swirled with the smell of sweat and musk clinging to the humid air. Between crashes of kisses that left them both gasping, she finally worked her hands from the blankets to curl and dig into his shoulders, and he watched her stare at him in waves of shock and desire and fear, her blue gaze rolling back when he touched her just right. 

“ _Jaime_.” The hum of his name made him work faster until it was a constant jumble that fell from her panting mouth.  It was only a few more circling teases and a steady, beating rhythm and Brienne was strangling a cry in her throat, back arched, and thighs weak as she sucked in deep gulps of air.  She trapped his fingers with her peaking bliss, vibrating enough to make his teeth chatter as he kissed her through to crest and fall.  He was lost in relishing the feel of her as she gave herself to him, open and bare and soft, for once, a tang of sweat and anise on his tongue. Through the slick slide of their skin, he held to her and she to him, one hand a scrape and tug in his hair and the other a rake of nails down his back. 

The quake of the bed finally settled to a rumble as he slowed her fingers to comforting caresses between her legs and Brienne became a loose, limp hang of limbs around him.  Jaime hid his triumphant smile in warm kisses along flesh that still jumped and twitched, leisurely exploring her freckles and blushes and all the new skin to find, letting her float like a downy feather swaying in the air before landing. He wanted to remind her that he was there, the one still dipping into her lingering desire, and he was not going to hurry away, lest they be found.  He had carried her over the edge, ripping apart the jagged, thick seams that she had fortified so that she could be remade with silken thread and a knowing hand. 

Once Jaime had reached her breasts, he finally removed his fingers and capered them from her stomach to her neck, then gently gripped her tunic and pulled it down to cover her again, all the while kissing her throat and rubbing himself against her side.  As her peak eroded away to a dull throb, the muscles under his lips and hands hardened and tensed, molting the malleable, giving skin to reveal the rigid woman beneath. But still he held her, for both the smooth and inflexible belonged to him now. 

He hoped she would fall asleep in his arms, still lulled by the pull of their joining, but Brienne was a slippery eel in his grasp as she wriggled from his demanding cock.  “What are you supposed to do…” 

Jaime’s chuckle was hardly more than a loose sigh.  “No need to worry about that, wench.  It won’t bite you if you stay close.” He knew he would have suffer the sharp stabs in his belly to lull him to rest tonight. 

She nodded, a shake of sweat soaked wheat peeling against blotchy freckles, dark, tired shadows cast under her gaze.  But her eyes were shining pools, pierced with sunlight to brighten the depths and shimmer the surface.  She blinked and looked about her as she came back to her senses, refusing to glance at his smiling face, though her hands rested like butterflies on his bare arm. 

Sighing, he raised his head and leaned in to her, delighting in the way she reached for him as well, though she was still shy and tentative. Jaime’s palm against her cheek and his rapid, deep breath, as desire tormented him again, caused her to open further and he slipped his tongue inside of her again, knowing he wanted more, knowing this is where he belonged. 

Brienne tore away, heaving chest and crushing grip, as she tried to calm herself. But Jaime held her close, despite her long arms and legs poking out from the curl of his body around her, the mat of her fevered body flush against his.  “We should go,” she whispered. 

“Should we? Why?” 

“Well…” She stole a quick glance at him. “What happens…after?” 

Jaime rolled to his back, eyes cast to the beams but not seeing. _After_. After was hurried dressing and groping hands slapped away.  After was whispers of hollow promises and declarations.  After was unsated, empty completions wiped away before bodies cooled. After was a hunger for the next. 

“After,” he eventually repeated. “I don’t really know.” 

“Oh.” She shifted on the creaking cot so that she was on her side and Jaime slid his arm beneath the thin pillow to give her neck more support. 

Then she moved.  And _after_ was a casting of rough hair on his chest and a large, coarse hand over his heart.  It was the warmth of muscle hidden under sweat soaked linen.  It was a large, sated woman nestled in his arms.


	24. The Raid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure everyone will be shocked to see me thanking Coraleeveritas, but, seriously, I lost count of the revisions and conversations we had about this chapter. Not only does she inspire me but she also motivates me and I feel like I'd go to a stuttering halt with this story if I didn't get excited every night to talk to her about what I've written (and, I'm so spoiled, to see what she's working on). Thank you for being my partner in every way!
> 
> And I threw this chapter at Sandwichesyumyum, who has been writing amazing things, as usual, and she dropped everything to speed through this. I can't thank her enough for being that constant pillar I lean on!
> 
> I would also like to thank my dear Tamjlee for allowing me to use that brilliant, beautiful brain of hers, as well as her time, to help me work through the issues with this chapter.

CHAPTER 24: THE RAID 

“ _This_ is supposed to have been made by the First Men?” Jaime snorted in a whisper behind her as they floated further up the river. 

She quieted him with a glare over her shoulder, though all he did was smile seductively around biting his lip and sat back in their skin boat. He was not wrong to be unimpressed by the crumbling ruin of the stronghold, the swamp crawling and clinging at the broken stone, reaching above the trees and working to swallow up the fortress, like a snake muscling a rabbit through its jaws.  But rising from the murky waters and peeking through the vines and moss, she could see the thick blocks of stone, larger than what could typically be wrestled to build with, locked and jointed, just as strong as fingers woven together.  Time and war and neglect had collapsed the walls and towers, but when the crannogmen who had accompanied them spoke of Moat Cailin, it was with whispers and reverence. And as Brienne spotted the black chunks of the fallen partition, she felt her skin prickle like there was a nest of eyes on her and murmurs of a dead language humming in the breeze. 

“It isn’t exactly the place I imagined would be the next time I could get you in a bed, wench,” Jaime remarked from his reclined position against the aft. 

“Quiet,” she hissed and then coughed at the inhale of humid air. 

He had been a terribly tempting beast for their trip up the Neck. After he had touched and teased her, making her feel aware and alive when all she had hoped was to block out her nightmares, her fears, herself, Jaime was even more unbearable. And she allowed a small part of herself to bask in it.  They had argued and sparred just as they had always done, just as she had always known, there was _something_ there that had always lingered between them, but she was closer to knowing what it was now. A spark ignited when he could make her speak out, when she pointed a dulled sword at his throat, when she smiled. And it was just as heady as his kisses. 

They had left the following day and had spent the rest of them hunkered in thin, narrow boats that held only four people, guided through the swerving, intertwined rivulets spreading to the north of Greywater Watch’s current location. Their nights were broken into shifts, staying up to keep predators at bay, rather than any enemies that were fool enough to wander the swamps.  And Brienne had barely slept between a rolling heat that kept her tossing and long hours fighting to stay awake.  Meanwhile, Jaime had been forced to maintain his distance most of the time, though she was swept up in stolen kisses behind columns of trees and beneath green, rich sunlight, and left constantly thrumming with his murmurs in her ears. 

Their guide, on her knees to the front of the boat, dug her pole in quickly and pushed them away from floating towards Moat Cailin, jarring Jaime and Brienne, who had to grab the sides to steady themselves.  The vessels ahead of them were also veering down a small channel that wound around the fortress.  But they were still close enough that she could spot movement in the only intact tower and flickering torches in the one that was leaning over and she gripped tightly to the alligator skin, beginning to hear the distant singing of battle. 

“I think they’re taking us further north,” Jaime muttered. The crannogmen had been tight lipped to the Lannisters and the female bannermen.  Even Lord Reed had been reticent to give the party that had escorted the Starks safely to the swamp any kind of information. All they knew was that they could skirt Moat Cailin and reach it from the north, where it was weak, with paths that only the crannogmen knew.  Jaime had growled at it all, though he too admitted that they were simply swords now and the _where_ and w _hen_ was all they needed to know. 

Still, it had made the long journey stretch further in Brienne’s mind, since she was unable to occupy it with their plans and destination. She could not stop incessantly picking at the memories of Jaime above her, like an itching scab trying to hide and heal torn skin.  He had been a wild flurry of fingers, working her to a smooth slickness she had not thought her body could melt in to, while his mouth had been a hungry maw that consumed and marked patches of her exposed skin.  She had touched them afterwards and discovered she could still feel his teeth and tongue claiming them from her. 

 _I want to forget_ , she had told him.  She had been a fool, though, because she did not want to forget _that_. His hair had been a tumult of gold curls catching the light as he had gazed down at her with dark, jade eyes that blazed each time she gasped, his lips peeling back into a triumphant grin whenever she writhed from the pressure of his fingertips.  His skin had shifted and molded to the working muscles buried beneath as he continued to pleasure her, sweat glinting off the hard plains of his chest and the soft curls of hair sprouting between his nipples and trailing off to his rippling stomach.  The sight alone had been enough for her to open her legs and coat his fingers, letting surging moans escape as he kissed and tasted her, grunting and rubbing his beard along her flesh. 

And then, she did forget.  She forgot she had never been desired, that she was a lady who should have already been wed and giving her husband heirs, that she was ugly and big and mulish. She was a fire forged into flesh beneath Jaime’s hands, fueled by the glint in his eyes as he had watched her let one of her final walls against him fall to ruin.  It was a weak barricade that guarded her heart now. 

Yet, that could not last for long and the disbelief that Jaime, with his build cast from the gods and his tongue as wicked as a scorpion with a heart tarnished and yet still true and red beneath all his leather and steel, could look upon her with anything but contempt was a wash of cold water that hardened her. Her body had fought the sensations of her mind surfacing, only to be pulled back beneath by his heavy moans in her ear as he pressed his hardness against her and increased his pace until she could not even make a sound, nor a thought, besides the reminder that Jaime was like no other man.  Though, she was hardly like any other woman. 

Just as she was beginning to edge toward the memory of the feeling of her belly dropping, the blood coursing from her limbs to hum and beat between her hips, and the growl and nip of Jaime purring against her cheek, the same man was sitting up again to whisper to her.  “They are anchoring.” 

“I was never the blind one, Jaime.  I can see that,” she snapped, though she had not noticed that the boats in the lead were disappearing in to the ferns across from the Gatehouse Tower. 

He chuckled.  “I thought perhaps you were lost in your thoughts, wench.” 

She scowled at him but said no more.  He was burrowed in her dreams.  And he knew it. 

They were nearing the driest patch of land, regardless, and they hopped from the boat with ease, after learning from numerous times of disembarking just to stutter and slosh in the waters smelling of acrid rot.  Ser Addam, Clegane, and Lady Dacey were already standing off to the side, looking up at the remnants of the castle looming through the trees, while the crannogmen faded in to the lush foliage to begin their survey or hunkered down to sharpen arrows and string bows.  They hoped to take the ironborn in a matter of a few days so that the rest of the party, including the Starks with Ser Bonifer, Peck, and their remaining bannermen, could soon join them. 

Lord Reed approached as soon as Brienne became used to the give of the ground beneath her feet again, digging his spear in to the soft earth as he lightly picked his way through puddles and growth.  “My men will meet with those already hidden around Moat Cailin,” he told them. “Then we will spend the night trying to take out anymore ironborn we can find.  I’ve had reports that they have been hiding from any windows or open spaces. But they are still drinking the water.” 

“What can we expect once we are inside?” Brienne asked. 

“Death, slow and painful,” he replied ominously.  “Hunger.  Fear. Desperation.  They have been holed up, abandoned, and dying for some time now. They will do anything to escape, my lady.” 

“Will they turn in to fish and swim back to the sea?” Jaime grumbled as he tightened his sword belt and tested the hold. 

“We will find out before sunrise,” Lord Reed sighed with not even a blink at his tone. 

Exchanging a glance with Jaime, Brienne made her way to the others and readied for the night like the rest, though now they would not to cope with the small, contained fires that the crannogmen could concoct with nothing but water around them and wet vegetation for sparking.  So, she paced on wobbly legs and sat until her eyes would drag close and shivered through the sweat rolling down her back, fighting to swallow the coughs that bubbled up from her filled lungs.  And Jaime watched her, his gaze like a dog nipping at her steps and trying to make her pause.  But, for once, he remained silent, lost as he was in his own preparations for battle. 

The waning night was an arc of shooting stars, arrows wrapped in moss burning a trail through the sky, lighting up and casting shadows against leaves and bark and stone as the crannogmen loosed them into the towers and the crumbling remains of the stronghold.  They lit them with the same twist and trick as evenings past, making Brienne think of wildfire in how the wet earth caught with a green flare before bursting into hot white, turning Jaime into a silent set of clenched teeth beside her as they waited.  The air was filled with shouts and hollers from inside, laced with fear and madness as they reached a high pitch, the ironborn becoming aware of the attack. 

When the fortress glowed like a frosted candle from within, Lord Reed hefted his spear and gave a trill.  Dozens of crannogmen floated from the swamp like the mist at their ankles, some swimming as swift as eels to the heart of Moat Cailin, while others crept and crawled around the towers.  Archers continued to aim whenever a fool inside was scared enough to forget to avoid passing a window. 

Brienne and the others slinked along after Lord Reed, who was weaving a thin path through the marsh towards the Gatehouse Tower.  There were still stony fingers of fragmented wall reaching up from the ground and while it would protect the ironborn inside, from their scuttle from the north, the raiders were able to use the barricades as protection. Thus, some of crannogmen paused to crouch besides the rooted wall, waiting for any men that would be able to flee. 

Leaving those behind, there was only a small party that headed towards the lone entrance, since they could only mill inside one at a time. But arrows were still raining from the swamp, keeping any ironborn from loosing their own on the group surging forward. And Brienne found the quick sprint to the locked, rotting wooden door to be nothing but a blink of her eyes before Clegane and Ser Addam were slamming their shoulders into the wet, giving boards and rushing inside to shouts and clanging steel. 

Jaime stayed beside her elbow, a trembling coil of heat and strength coursing even through their light armor, sweating through the little they had donned in the sticky, stifling night, under the flames flying above their heads and those settling and spreading in the tower.  They managed to slip through the door together, swords first, and skirted around the edge of the entrance hall, both instinctively looking for the winding stairs. 

The stench of putrid death hung heavy in the thick air inside, a scent that reminded Brienne of finding the body of one of her father’s hunting dogs four days missing.  It assaulted her nostrils, weaving to sting her eyes and squeeze her empty stomach, making her retch. There were piles of wet bodies in the dark recesses, limp pale limbs flecked with blood and pus, sloughing skin poking out from rags covering the rest and was the source of the odor. 

In the center, fighting had already broken out, tall thin lifeless looking men slashing with bludgeon and axe and sword and even hands, clawing and wild, beating back death with raw desperation.  Most of the crannogmen were able to dance away and drive their tipped spears into flesh and bone already decaying.  But the space was still tight and some had resorted to daggers to be able to reach. 

Clegane, Ser Addam, and Lady Dacey had been caught up in the mass in the hall, Brienne counting at least two dozen ironborn.  But more were swarming from the stairs on either side and she made her way towards the closest group.  Jaime was a silent shadow beside her.  _Stay close.  Don’t be foolish_. 

They were only a few steps up when a wave of screaming, men brandishing whatever weapon they could find came rushing down from above.  Brienne had a moment to notice one of them pass a window and fall with an arrow lodged in his throat before the rest crashed upon them. She was thrown back by the weight of so many ironborn, but was still able to catch herself and hold her ground while Jaime stumbled and shouted as the men separated them. 

As she pushed and grunted, forcing enough room to raise her sword and run it through the body before her, she kept the head of gold curls in her periphery. But there was so many, a press of sweat and oozing sores and rotten breath that she was constantly searching for a flash of steel to signal that one had a knife coming towards her. Still, the swing of her blade cut through those that tried to madly barrel into her and soon she was coated in blood and innards as she hacked.  _Just meat.  Just flesh.  Nothing more_. 

Suddenly, a clammy soft arm wrapped itself around her neck and yanked her from her stance.  She cried out as she fell back into her attacker, twisting and writhing so that she would not find herself with a dagger in her side.  They collapsed and bounced off the last stairs and hit the stone. Brienne was immediately scrambling to her shaky feet but the tall man, who was nothing but cloth and bones and rage, was faster and she felt the crack of his knuckles when he slammed them against her temple. 

"Brienne!" Jaime shouted somewhere above her. 

She was already shaking away the pain and sending her sword up to cleave the arm that was retreating from her face.  The man screamed and more blood coated her armor but she blinked away the red in her vision, using a backstroke from the momentum of her swing to remove his head.  This time, she retched and spat out only bile. 

“Brienne!” Jaime called again, concern rising as a growl in his voice. 

As she wiped her mouth with the back of her glove, she ran back into the throng of ironborn trying to force their way down to the hall, searching for Jaime, whom she had let slip from her sight, but not finding him. Taking only a heartbeat to note her surroundings, she scanned the bottom of the tower to find mostly the small forms of crannogmen running amidst scattered corpses of larger bodies, even more strewn across the expanse of vulnerable open space outside. Lady Dacey and Ser Addam were trying to make their way up the other staircase, but Clegane and Lord Reed were not to be seen. 

Brienne kept her distance from the mob when she reached it, so that she could cut and slice through, ignoring the wide gape of red she exposed with every arc of her blade, knowing only that she had not found Jaime before her, that the chests stepping in to her bleary sight were brittle and hollow and already dead. _They would have died from my sword or the poison.  Either way._   The sting of scratches and cuts on her face and tearing the exposed sleeves of her tunic did not matter.  She hardly felt the booted heel to her shin that sent her sprawling on the steps, nor cared for the fists and knives pinging off the back of her breastplate as she crawled onwards, using her sword to swipe at ankles and calves. 

Finally she saw torchlight through the mass of forms and she heaved off a man so that she could head for it, dodging a fist clutching an axe. Armor glinted from the flames and a tatter of crimson that was not blood flashed in front of her. She snatched at it, having to pause because her sword arm instinctively reached out first.  And then, there was Jaime, dirty, with cuts along his lip and above his eye, hair tussled and green eyes burning, grabbing on to her arm and pulling her like she was a small, easy thing, dragging her into his heaving chest. 

He swung his sword over her head and she felt a spray of cold against her neck and the fumble of someone collapsing to the steps below. 

"Down!" a voice bellowed above them. 

While Brienne looked up in confusion, Jaime yanked her to the bitterly sharp stairs and threw himself over her, making her gasp and squirm against his weight on her plating.  She caught sight of Lady Dacey and two crannogmen on the landing, just as they released a volley of arrows, Clegane behind them practically carrying Lord Reed, who was bleeding from his thigh, and Ser Addam ducking from the arrows to climb down to reach them. 

Brienne turned to look over Jaime’s shoulder, watching the last of the ironborn behind them fall back with shafts jutting out from eyes and throat. And then she sighed and let her head drop to the cool stone. 

"We picked the wrong staircase," Jaime mumbled as he stood. 

“Only you two fools would jump into a group of twenty ironborn,” Ser Addam laughed as he wrapped his hand under Brienne’s arm and helped Jaime haul her to her feet. 

“In our defense, they were practically dead anyway,” Jaime replied. “A few more days and we could have walked into Moat Cailin without assault.” 

“They still had a fortnight before the poison truly would have taken them all,” Lord Reed winced from Clegane’s back. 

“Well, it certainly eased the way,” Jaime grumbled.  He hissed when Brienne banged into his side. “Somewhat.” 

“Have all the ironborn been contained?” Lady Dacey asked. 

Lord Reed peered around Jaime, Brienne, and Ser Addam, at a pair of crannogmen who were on the base of the stairs.  They nodded.  “There are no more in this tower,” he said.  “And my men have taken care of the rest.” 

 _Taken care. Over sixty men_. Brienne wanted to ask if any had surrendered, if any had lived.  But she thought of their hollow eyes and the blood thirst as they had charged at her and she shuddered.  Jaime pulled her closer, despite the stickiness of blood between his mail, and she had a sudden, silly thought of how he had pressed to her side so he could reach between her legs and let his fingernails rake along the hair there before catching at a spot that sent her entire body vibrating.  It melted into the more recent feeling of Jaime throwing himself over her as arrows and swords and bodies sailed above. 

 _We’re here. We’re alive_.  She did not want to forget.  And she did not want that one moment to be all that she could cling to, not when Jaime was fool enough to put her before himself.  The fight should have drained her, left her a trembling mess of excited and empty twitches, but Jaime next to her, still alive, still hers, had her heart pumping like she was still struggling for her life. 

“We should get you somewhere to rest,” Jaime murmured into her ear, just as he had whispered the savage, dark things about what he wanted and could do to her.  _Does he still want to take me to bed?_ “You look…paler than usual.” 

The group made their way down the stairs, leaning on one another and hobbling, pain beginning to seep in through the fading beat of war drums, filling in the spaces that had been bursting with the loud hammering of _fight_ , _survive_ , _kill_.  Brienne could still hear the song of steel ringing in her ears as Jaime and Ser Addam eased them back towards the entrance. It echoed and danced along the large blocks of stone, then dampened and deadened as it sank against the bodies strewn across the floor.  There were mostly the larger, haggard forms of the ironborn, but Brienne spotted the greens of the crannogmen as well, all littered around the burning clumps of moss that were crawling and stretching flaming fingers towards the cloth on the bodies. 

"We'll burn the dead," Lord Reed said.  "And anything we find that can catch. We'll scrub the walls and remove any sign of sickness before Lady Stark arrives." 

 _Hide it all. Hide the price of the North. Cover our lady's pretty eyes while we cover our hands in blood._  

"What?" Jaime frowned at Brienne. 

"I didn't say anything," she replied.  _Did I?_  

"There are rooms in the Drunkard's Tower we can clear quickly and place our wounded," Lord Reed said as they left the stifling, thick air of the Gatehouse Tower and Brienne could breathe in the wet, earthy night. 

The crannogmen were already working, dragging corpses that trailed bony fingertips and rivulets of blood along the cobbles, running clean marsh water to wash away the vestiges of battle and the signs of desperate, barely living, setting up tents in the rubble and ruin, and lighting more fires. Brienne could sleep and wake to a stronghold still crumbling around her but with never a hint of the dead that had lingered and suffered.  

 _The stones will know, though.  It’s seeped inside them and they will never be clean of blood and bile and poison, ever again._  

"Brienne, you should rest," Jaime interrupted her thoughts again. 

She wanted to lay down and close her eyes, twine her limbs around the smooth muscles of his own, wake to feel the rise and fall of his chest as he still breathed, the pattern of his heartbeats that were a new song for her to be called to.  She could pull him along into one of the rooms, give the walls something else to keep secret, another sacrifice, another giving of blood.  Give it all just one glimmer of what hope and affection felt like. 

Instead, Lady Dacey took her up the stairs of the other tower, while Brienne looked behind them to where Jaime stood watching, still clutching his red tipped sword and covered in grime and gore, licking the blood from his lips and staring at her like a ravenous beast.  She shivered and if she had had the strength, she would have torn away to wrap her dirty fingers in his knotted hair and kiss away the last droplets from his cuts. 

 _We're here. We're alive_.  _We. It had to be ‘we’._  

But, she let Lady Dacey guide her past rooms filled with busy crannogmen until they were sent to a small closet cleared of supplies, where one of their men had lain a bed of grass and leaves, piled with blankets and one downy pillow. 

Brienne sighed as she fell on it, grateful for the softness after days sitting on a plank for a seat and nights lying on logs and twigs. Under the light of torches outside in the hallway, Lady Dacey helped her remove her boots and armor and mail, leaving her in nothing but sweat soaked breeches and tunic.  She did not bother to crawl under the sheets, nor could she do more than mumble a "thank you" to Lady Dacey, who was frowning and pressing a palm to her temple and running light fingers along where the fabric of her tunic was matted against her with blood. 

She could not recall Lady Dacey leaving or the light fading as the torches were left to gutter and wan.  The slips of dreams that she sank and floated through reached up to grip her without her ever realizing that she had fallen asleep.  Red, death, night and gold, beautiful, bright, all terrifying and wonderful. 

She blinked, nestling into the softness, and then she opened her eyes to heavy darkness and the creak of the door opening, letting in a weak flicker of light as a thick candle floated into the room.  Lifting her head, she caught the sheen of glassy green, like a glade sparkling in spring sun, and the flash of white like snow. Her eyes shifted and adjusted and she found Jaime, stripped of sword and armor as well, face and hands cleaned, though his clothes were still torn and stained, slip into the room and close the door behind him. 

Pausing as he loomed above her when he realized she was awake, he looked like a giant, casting a shadow that could coat the world in blackness. "You should be sleeping." 

"I did.  I think," she whispered, too afraid to hear her grating, high voice in the wrap of dark that had shut out anything but the room.  "Why are you here if you thought me asleep?" 

He finally crouched down to lay the candle beside the pile of grass and Brienne suddenly did not like how bright it was.  "I was going to sleep, too." 

In the dark she could barely see his face, but there was no smile or taunt or lightness about him.  He was watching her, following the shift of her body as she moved back against the wall. Wordlessly, he sat in the space she had created and turned his back to her to kick off his boots. 

"I don't want to sleep anymore," she murmured like a coward to the expanse of muscle that was revealed as he tugged his tunic off by pulling at it by his shoulders. 

"Neither do I, Brienne." 

As he moved to lay on the bed, he pulled up the blanket, the thin fabric caressing and heating her as it climbed up her legs, guided by his slow tug. He shifted so that he was above her once more, just as she had dreamed, letting go of the sheet when it rested against his back.  With the single light, all she could see was Jaime over her, curls falling in his face and casting shadows against his metallic flecked beard.  Their bodies faded to blackness so that they were nothing but arms and chests and heads set against the flames.  

Yet Brienne could _feel_ the rest. Jaime’s toes were cold, rough presses against her own feet as he rubbed them together, hard thighs capturing one of her legs and squeezing while he settled his desire on her hip. Instinctively she wrapped her other leg across the backs of his calves and he sighed at the tangle. She felt his hands, scoured rough and clean, run up her sides, pulling her tunic with them as they caught and dragged along her clammy skin, her puckered old scars, and new scratches. 

Then, they reappeared in the light and she watched as he had to rest his weight on her further so that he could sweep the fabric over her head. The soft mass of curls on his chest sharpened her nipples as he threw the tunic into the darkness and leaned down to kiss her.  She knew his touches now, knew to open her mouth to let his tongue dip and tease and make her arch up, needing him to plunge deeper to taste her.  She knew to brace for the nip and the lick when he took pleasure in her need and swirled the ache he was creating with a fine sweetness. And she knew to embrace how much she enjoyed it. 

“Brienne,” he growled when he tore away from her lips.  She could see the slice on his mouth, raised and tight, before he ducked his head to run his teeth along the stutter of freckles marring her throat.  “Remember what I told you?” He gracelessly ground against her, his hardness pressing at the meeting of her legs and all memory and thought escaped her fumbling, lost mind. “Are you ready for me?” 

She groaned and lifted her hips, dampness from her smallclothes matting the hairs below her belly.  “Jaime.” His name was as much a release as what his fingers had brought her to a fortnight before. She reveled in the freedom to moan it, filling it with all she wanted and all she feared, letting her tongue wrap around it and swallow it down, extracting the courage it could provide. She could only clutch at him, one big hand sunk in to his silken tresses and the other a pale, calloused claw in his back. 

He was a turmoil of fingers and lips as he sucked at her collar, drawing out her uncertainty like leeching out a poison.  His palms set fire to her skin, coursing back down her chest as he set to work on the laces of her breeches while his hips rolled like a wave, pulling her to copy his movements like the tide in the night. Then the feeling of his hips beside hers turned from a brush of linen against linen to flesh against fabric. 

As he moved her breeches down her legs, he trailed his lips to her chest, teething and encouraging her nipples, her breath catching her throat despite the growing familiarity of the touch.  Burning her flesh with the rub of his cheek against her ribs, he turned his face so that he could use the other to spark tingles along her stomach. All the while, he breathed her name like a song until he had freed her legs.  It was difficult for Brienne to fathom that just that morning she had killed and fought and now she was nothing but coiled desire, waiting for what came next. 

With desperate pulls, Brienne could feel Jaime trying to loosen his own breeches with one hand while he dug the fingers of his other into her shoulder, as if he was preparing for the madness to leave her and the inevitability of her retreat.  But there was nowhere to go.  Not now. The world was simply this circle of yellow light cast by a melting, drooping candle, wax dribbling down the sides and melding it to the floor. 

Too immersed in cursing at his laces, Jaime did not notice the burning wax snaking towards his other hand until he reared back with a hiss and stuck the side of his palm between his lips.  At the sound of his discomfort, Brienne snatched his wrist quickly and placed light kisses along the red and heated flesh, wet from his mouth, watching Jaime chuckle and lean in again as he followed her movements. 

“Not exactly the charming man you hoped to take to bed, am I, wench?” he muttered as he continued fumbling with his breeches. 

 _No,_ she thought, _a better man_. 

The only warning she had that Jaime had finally pushed down the last barrier between them was the sudden and cold press of flesh, soft and giving, digging into her thighs.  She frowned and squirmed against it, but Jaime followed her up the makeshift bed, his hardness a surprising strength alongside her muscled body.  The sensation of something velvety and demanding was unpleasant at first. She did not enjoy how it molded easily to the crease of where her legs were pressed together.  But as he thrust forward, she felt the rest of his need as well, more like how it had been described to her, a hot, thick, unyielding thing that was only made to plummet and push.  Jaime’s was no different, even the ropes of veins shifting beneath the thin sheet of skin were dense and stiff. 

 _Jaime’s manhood.  It_ is _Jaime, not some faceless man, not a stranger or an enemy.  Not a husband, either._   But Jaime was finer than a husband.  This was her choice, when a man in a marriage bed would not have been.  Though it was still difficult for her to comprehend why he had picked her, that this was his decision as well.  

She muffled an alarmed and objecting grunt when he easily slid between her thighs to press himself against her barely touched folds.  But though she was aware of her body resisting the lightest of intrusions just at her entrance, Jaime’s head was tossed back and his throat was bobbing as he groaned.  “ _Yes_ ,” he hissed. “You’re ready.” 

She did not truly feel like she was ready, unsure even with the desire coating the space between her hips and pulsing a steady beat, if she could ever be prepared for the battle of her body, the fight to retreat and push back when she should be loose and give in, though she nodded her head nonetheless. She was an ugly girl, hidden by the shadows so that Jaime could forget the deformities of her nose and overly large mouth.  The wide bushes of her brows could blend into the expanse of her freckled forehead and the knots and jagged edges of her brittle hair could be smoothed back by darkness. All she knew was to attack and defend, all she was made for was harsh, bitter things, and the gentle slowness with which Jaime fought to control, filling her even while he gritted his teeth, was not meant to ever be for her to know. 

This must be what her septa had spoken of, as Jaime continued to move forward, the unyielding force overpowering the painful flicker of resistance hidden inside of her.  While she struggled not to choke on her tongue balling up in the back of her mouth, Jaime eased the rest of his length in, stretching her further as his base thickened, as each ridge and bump passed through her constricting folds.  He was a torrent of gusty, heavy breaths as he gasped and puffed into her ear, his sweating forehead pressing to her temple as he arched away from her to drive his hips into hers. 

And then he was in.  And she felt too full, too bare as she could no longer feel the dampness helping him slide along, too aching as the longing that had throbbed above her entrance ebbed into a sharper beat inside her belly.  His hands were on her thighs now, lifting them so that the mass of trembling flesh could be coaxed to wrap around his back as he pulled away.  

“Don’t leave now,” he rumbled, a dark, lascivious sound that she felt in her chest more than she heard.  “Don’t give in.  Give it back to me, Brienne. Gods, wench, let me feel you.” 

He retreated further and Brienne surged her hips forward, embedding him again, despite how it burned, regardless of her body struggling with the unfamiliarity of having him so close.  And he was a howl of pride as he sank down.  With her legs locked at the ankles, squeezing his sides, and her hands clutching the muscles of his back, Jaime rose on his elbows and rocked on his knees so he could withdraw.  He kept his face close enough to kiss her cheek and jaw and neck, his wet beard leaving a trail across her skin, as he drew in gulps of air.  Just as she sighed and her skin recovered from being stretched, he was a gust and a thrust and a demand to be let in again, their bodies colliding. 

It was a fury of madness as over and over they repeated the dance and crash, until Brienne sucked in breath forcefully enough to have a silken coil of Jaime’s hair slither down her throat and she had to cough and turn her head to dislodge it. 

“Careful,” he sighed as he paused and looked down at her.  His lips touched her temple softly as he began moving again, smiling, eyes trailing along her ugly face as she blushed and tried not to snap at him.  “It’s the knight that’s supposed to ask the maid for the favor of a lock of hair.” 

“I’m no maid,” she whispered.  It was true now. 

“And I’m no good at being a knight.” 

“Liar,” she managed to edge out, with his hips rolling like thunder claps against hers, clanging together and sending bolts of white, hot tingling lightning coursing down her legs and up her chest, burning up anything but the power of his lust, his taste in her mouth.  It was a flash from one of the heavens before he was leaving her again and the rain was coming to take his place, washing away the brief storm of pleasure with the flood of discomfort and worry that had plagued her for all the years before Jaime came to charge and spark and toss them all away.  So she fought with him, seeking out his touch, his fullness, his snarls and sighs and her own name in her ears as she chased the storm again, trying to drown out the her mind chanting it was too much and not enough. 

The heave and pull was becoming so fast, Brienne found herself emitting barks as her breath rushed from her lungs and pushed out her mouth before she could wrestle it back in.  She knew that a true lady would be simpering sighs and soft squeals of delight, that such a lady was who this beautiful, sweating, hungry man above her should have claimed. But she was the one contesting against Jaime’s brutal drives that were shoving them further up the pile of grass, her strength letting her meet his assault before he could press them both back to the blankets.  It was her seeking out the shocks and tremors that left her gasping as he hit the glorious knot he had made his own with the hard snap of his stomach against her. 

“That’s it,” Jaime groaned, his voice bobbing with his movements. “ _With me_.  This is how we were _meant_ to be together.”

All of it.  They had been a tease, a tug, a constant circling of each other, scattered pieces struggling to fit on their own and falling into place only when joined, in the nights around her campfire, in their dance, their sparring and their sacrifices.  This was simply the final fragment, a simple thing of bodies when hearts were already fused, the last wedge they had held on to, tainted and edged with sharp memories and fantasies and brokenness, carved into names like _Renly_ and _Cersei_. But whole, filled, consumed as they were now, it was all something new, fresh, curves and smoothed corners and complete. 

“Brienne.” He was becoming an erratic rhythm she could not catch and match.  The building swirl, as the blood flooded to her stomach and below, started to dissipate as she fought to make him continue the mad soar he had set her on with his words and growls and plunges.  “Brienne.” Jaime strained and ground out, growing wilder as she held on. “I _can’t_ much longer,” he pleaded.  “Too good.  All mine. Mine.”  She shuddered at that, so close to letting him make her fall and forget.  But, for now, she was too enthralled with watching his dark green gaze as he stared down at her, mouth open and panting, words still tumbling from his tongue in a litany. “My wench.  Now.  _Now_.” 

Bucking up and shoving away, Jaime sat up and Brienne felt the cooler, dark air plaster against her wet skin and leave her chilled as a warmth spread on her thighs.  She saw Jaime bite his lip, eyes pressed shut and tipped up to the rafters as his body trembled and he consumed a cry.  She watched his stomach swell in the light, though the rest of him was still lost in shadows and she could not see him spill on her. 

It mattered little as Jaime fell forward again, bringing the blanket back with him so that he could cover her pimpled flesh.  His wet hair sprayed on her forehead as he landed with a sigh against the pillow and wrapped one clothed leg around her hips and the other caught up in her leg.  His chest was a slide of hair and muscle as he sheltered her with his heated body, arms pinning hers to her side.  Then, he reached up to kiss her, slow and sweet, the salt of his sweat melding with the tin of blood on their chewed lips. 

“Seven hells,” he chuckled breathlessly, loosely, freely into her throat. “I was supposed to make _you_ so ecstatic, you’d be begging me to take you any chance we got.”  His hand slipped to run through the drying stickiness between her legs.  “But instead you are going to have to _suffer_ through an old man rutting against you.” 

With his curls under her chin, she allowed herself to smile at the sound of the cracked, rough chinks in his voice softening and soothing from their exertions. She recalled the pull like she was a bowstring and then the release, like the arrow had loosed, all from his fingers. And she wondered if she could be notched again, though she knew only Jaime would hold the bow. 

“Next time, though, I will show you even more how I can make you feel.” 

 _Next time_. 

Brienne closed her eyes and let sleep come with the words still jostling around in her head, ominous and exciting, frightening and hopeful, Jaime curled around her, legs caging her own and arms holding her tightly. But when she dreamed, the brush against her calves was soft and shifting and her elbows were tied against her sides. It was dark and cold, yet she was covered in a sheen of sweat even while her breath froze escaping her lips. She was outside, in a forest, with a mist that emitted a dull, humming light for her to see by. 

A heavy weight fell on her shoulders.  A cloak.  And she recalled pulling out her mother’s maiden cloak and dragging it through her father’s solar as a child, marveling at the weight of it, heftier than any other cloak she had donned, even her rainbow one.  She knew, as sure as she could be in any dream, that she was wearing her own now. And the man standing in the fog, white against the blackness, looming above her, could only be Jaime, smoke and snow being the cloak he would lay on her. 

A growl close to her knees brought her attention to the shifting ground around her.  Two large wolves were prowling, lips pulled back to expose sharp teeth and ropes of saliva dripping to the earth.  They watched her as they circled, snarling and snapping, eyes bright beacons in the night. But further away, shadows against shadows, Brienne saw the fallen bodies of the rest of their pack, strewn about, motionless. 

"Do you know what we do to those that lay with lions?" one of the orbiting beasts barked.  She was a little more than a mass of auburn fur and an icy gaze, lunging at Brienne's heel as she backed away. 

"Kingslayer's whore," the one colored like earth and with eyes like steel yipped. 

 _No. He's yours.  I'm yours.  But can't we be yours together?_ She wanted to plead but her mouth was full of vinegar and metal and all she could do was shake her head until the world spun. 

"Wake up, Brienne," whispered the voice of Howland Reed. "Don't do this." 

"Yes, Brienne," came another.  _Lady Catelyn. Please.  Forgive me_.  "Wake up in the arms of my killer." 

 _Wake up_. 

With a gasp, she opened her eyes, giving a sharp yank to pull herself from the coiling confines of her dream.  The windowless room was dim but sunlight was creeping in underneath the door so that Brienne could see Jaime still nestled comfortably beside her. One of his arms had snaked beneath her head in the night and curled back so his fingers were laced in her hair. His other hand had pulled the blanket up further to warm her shivering form and was fisted deep in the wool while he draped the limb over her torso.  He was exposed and naked from the waist up.  Brienne could see the steady rise and fall as he slept, tanned and taught golden skin moving over the muscles of his back and flank. Hot puffs of breath matching his movements coated the bare freckled flesh of her shoulder that he was using as his pillow. 

She wanted to let the sight of him resting so easily and peacefully, push away her nightmare, let every sigh of his sleep blow back her fears. But she became a tumult of nausea and a fresh layer of sweat blooming from her skin, suddenly needing to ungracefully crawl over Jaime, slamming a knee to his hard chest and waking him as he grunted and coughed.  Uncaring of her own nakedness, she scrambled on her hands, grateful for the cool stones, until she was far enough away to retch up her stomach and let blackness take her.


	25. The Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realized that I've fashioned Dacey Mormont to be Coraleeveritas, in a way. At least, I see my talented beta as a beautiful woman, who is strong and fierce and determined, someone who knows what she wants and is not afraid to be firm and follow her own path. Coraleeveritas is also constantly kind and patient and never ceases to provide me with inspiration and motivation and it's the things that are solely her own character that I am truly grateful for. Still, in my mind, I've turned her into a warrior. :) Thank you, my friend!
> 
> And Sandwichesyumyum is Maege Mormont. Who wants to follow the social standard, she would say! Do what you want, be with whom you want, say what you want! She is the voice of reason but also freedom and Sandwichesyumyum has always been the one to give me courage and stay true to my heart. You will always have my respect and admiration, Sandwiches!

“Is it the poison?” 

“No.  It’s something else, something her body knows, something she’s fought before.” 

Jaime was already aware of that, though. It had been clear the moment she had scrambled from his arms, arching her back to heave and sob as she gagged. He should have recognized the coughing, the paleness, the beads of sweat catching on her lips and pooling at her collar, but he was still a blind fool and had thought it was because of the swamp, because of him.  Yet she had let herself become sick enough that she could not even rise from where she had sprawled on the floor and Jaime had dragged her back to the pile of grass and blankets and hastily dressed them both before hunting down a healer. 

 _Not a maester here. Perhaps that will finally free Brienne from this illness._  

Howland Reed had tracked down a young woman, hardly old enough to have flowered but with black eyes filled with life, and they had followed Jaime back to the small room, where he was promptly thrown out with a weakly whispered “please, leave” from Brienne and tiny hands shoved into his back.  But he refused to go far, prowling before the door that barred him from the wench and snapping at any that passed, while he strained his ears for signs of what was occurring inside. 

When the girl had slipped back onto the landing, making sure that Jaime could not catch a glimpse inside, save that his candle was still giving light, she had ignored him and hovered to whisper in her lord’s ear.  Their words, just beyond the edge of hearing, made him grind his teeth, listening to the whine and squeal of his bones rather than their deliberations.  The illness he and Brienne had caught in Renly’s camp had returned for her. But he was determined it would not take her. 

“What does she need?” Howland asked and Jaime glared at him for it. 

“I need to go back for herbs,” she replied. “She needs to be moved to another room with windows.  The swamp air will help her.” The twig of a child shot Jaime a look.  “And limit visitors.” With that, she glided swiftly down the stairs, not even a bow or a glance to the men as she set to work. Her haste worried Jaime. 

“Do you have somewhere else we can take her?” Jaime turned to Reed. 

“Yes, but Jaime,” he sighed.  “I fear the fever has left her addled.  She is….a bit…lost, in her head.” 

“She does that.” He did not wait for Reed to answer, though he saw the crannogman open his mouth, before he rammed his shoulder into Brienne’s door and stalked towards her form shivering under the same blankets beneath which she had trembled satisfyingly with him, so shortly before. Shoving away the tangible memory of her tightening around him while he was lost in his bliss and her arms, he quickly bent and peeled back the fabric. 

“Ser Jaime,” Reed warned. 

“Jaime,” Brienne rasped. 

Her clothes were damp and her hair matted to her face, skin sallow enough that Jaime thought he could see the freckles under her flesh.  With unfocused, roaming eyes, glistening with a sheen of fever, she rolled her head on the pillow, soft moans seeping out from the lips he had bit and kissed and sought after his peak. 

Ignoring them both, he dug his hand beneath her back and hefted her up.  Too weak to hold herself, she slumped against his chest, temple falling to his shoulder and her breath, cold and clammy, washing over his neck and making him shiver. He had to pull her up until her shaking legs bent and caught some of her weight.  

“There’s a room above where she will be more comfortable,” Reed resignedly said.  “I’ll make sure it’s ready.  Do you have her?” 

“Always.” 

As Reed left, Jaime tried moving them forward, but Brienne was limp beneath his hands.  “Wench, you’ve got to step those huge feet.” 

“Can’t.” 

“It’s not far, I promise you.” He tugged and she stumbled. 

“Just need to…rest.” 

He attempted to lift her, to get her legs started, but as soon as he set her down, they buckled.  “That’s what I’m trying to get you to do,” he grunted. “And while I’d much rather we both bask in the room where I had you moaning my name, orders are that you need some fresh air.” 

After another failed attempt to get Brienne out, he huffed in annoyance and stooped to cup the backs of her knees in the cavity of his elbow.  “Jaime, what are you-“ she gasped before he held her tightly around her waist and lifted her into his arms. “You can’t! I’m too heavy!” 

She was.  She was an impossible weight making his own legs quiver, but she was not going to make it by herself and she was already coughing from her protest, wet pushes of her breath that Jaime winced at.  So, he kept her pressed against him and slowly hauled them both out of the room as Brienne quieted and then was nothing for him to focus on but straining sighs along his throat.  It was hardly how he had hoped to spend his time with the wench. 

As they were leaving, Dacey Mormont came hurrying up the stairs, her eyes immediately falling to Brienne. “Let me get Clegane to help carry her.” 

Jaime felt his lips pull back as he bared his teeth. He wanted to challenge her for even _thinking_ of letting another man near, but he turned away to walk up the tower instead. “Bring her armor.” 

He heard Dacey sniff, but she stomped into the room and the clanging of metal followed him as he struggled to lift his feet and carry Brienne.  “Let me down,” she murmured.  “I shouldn’t be here.” 

“Where exactly?” he snorted.  “In Moat Cailin? In my arms? You’ll have to be more specific. Would you rather the Hound threw you over his shoulder?” 

“No more Lannisters.  I can walk.” 

“No, you can’t.  And one Lannister is all you need, wench.” He had to pant out the last word as he drew up a step raised higher than the others. 

The rest were easier, though he was starting to lose sensation in his calves, and he only had to stop once to toss Brienne higher in his arms when her sweating body threatened to slip down. She gathered enough strength to cling tightly to his neck and moan in his ear when he moved her too much. Dacey, carrying the noisy armor, lingered behind them and Jaime could feel her frown burning into his back as she watched Brienne’s head loll on his shoulder. 

Finally, they made it to the next landing where Reed guided them to a larger room, most likely used at one point as a bedchamber for a knight, with two tall windows letting in a humid breeze, blowing the layers of clean linen on the travel cot that had been erected against one of the walls.  The stones were still glistening from having been recently scrubbed down, but they were drying quickly from the tepid heat of burning moss in the fireplace. 

Biting his tongue to keep the groan in his throat, he bent to carefully lower Brienne to the bed, ignoring his objecting muscles and trying not to think that he may have just dropped her the last bit of space above the blankets.  She did not seem to notice, though, as she immediately rolled to her side and faced the wall, dragging up one leg at a time until she was reduced to a coughing, shaking ball. 

“That moss smells awful,” Jaime groused, staring at her back, at her suffering, at her indifference.  He rounded on Reed, who was standing near the door, and disregarded Dacey setting Brienne’s armor in a corner. 

“It will clear her chest,” Reed shrugged. “Come, she needs rest.” 

“I’m not leaving her,” Jaime barked. “She should not wake up alone.” 

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered.  The three looked at her, leaning in to hear her pained hiss. “Leave.  Please.” 

Before he could charge at her, shake her and kiss her, Dacey swept in to grab his elbow and steer him out of the room, Reed closing the door behind him.  “Tiana will be back soon and she will take care of Lady Brienne,” he said.  “There’s nothing you can do.” 

“Jaime,” Dacey murmured as Reed walked down the tower, his staff clicking on the steps.  “I saw the blood.” 

“What blood?” Had he missed Brienne cough up blood? Was there some in what she had retched up? 

Dacey rolled her eyes as if it was obvious. “The blood on the blankets. The small drops in the middle.” 

“Brienne was just in a battle.” Jaime took a step towards the girl, but she did not back away.  “She was hurt.  You carried her to that first chamber yourself.  I’m surprised there was not _more_ blood.” 

“You take me for some shy lady?” Dacey snorted. 

“You are taking Brienne as such, not some warrior that has killed and survived.  That may not even be her blood.” 

“True.  It could be yours.” 

Jaime took another step.  “What would a maiden know of what you are suggesting?” 

“Not much, I’m sure,” Dacey arched a dark brow. “You are simply hiding what we all already know.” 

“Do you think Brienne would like it to be known?” Jaime snapped.  She would not, he knew, and deep in his belly, he felt a sharp twist at the knowledge. He had gladly punched a man for thinking her a trophy.  But he was not like that fool. 

“This is war, not court,” Dacey shrugged. 

“It matters little to Sansa Stark.” 

“My mother would say that Brienne has other weapons more valuable than her maidenhead.” Dacey eyed him blatantly from head to foot. “You are going to marry her?” 

“Who? Lady Sansa? I don’t particularly care for delicate, pretty things, I’ve found.  And I doubt she cares for me.” 

“Gods, how does Brienne tolerate you?” Dacey laughed in frustration. 

Jaime glanced at the closed door at his back. “Not well.” 

“The crannogmen report that the others will be here by next morning,” Dacey conceded. 

“I’ll be there, but, I doubt Brienne will be ready to move, regardless of what she says.  Make sure the Starks don’t try to see her.  We can’t have the keys to the North catching sick.” 

Dacey grinned and arched her brow. “And I thought you were just a pretty face and a useless white cloak.” 

 _Fucking Northerners_ , Jaime thought as Dacey left him.  Sighing, he slumped against the door, crossing his arms and staring at nothing, not even seeing the stone wall across from him.  What he saw instead were images of just that morning, Brienne’s large blue gaze watching him as he slid in beside her, as he kissed and whispered to her, as he moved inside of her.  He could still feel her lips on him, her hands braving to clutch him as he took her, gave himself to her, and it had been like she was the one holding him, filling the spaces that had been empty and rotting in him. The sensation of her wrapped around his cock, urging her hips up to become a part of their joining, the gasp against his ear as she murmured his name, had been all he needed to lose himself, to be unable to ride it through to her own pleasure, making him let go and fly. 

 _Next time_ , he had told her and he laughed mirthlessly at it now, sitting outside of her sick room because she had told him to leave.  

He was still there when the girl, Tiana, returned, carrying a bundle in her frail arms and regarding him with pointed glares. She would not let him see inside the folds and she kicked the door in his face when he tried to follow her into the room.  But, as the sun began to dip, when she appeared again, Jaime caught the aroma of mint and nutmeg and something spicy and dark escaping with her, before she promptly closed Brienne off to him again.  As she passed, she pulled out a strip of dried alligator meat, a soft roll of bread, and a skin of water, handing it to him. 

“You are not to bother her unless she calls out,” she commanded.  “She needs rest, not a man’s hovering.” 

Jaime took a calming breath before he could ask, “How is she?” 

“Delirious from fever and in pain, but I think I’ve got the nausea to lessen, which means she should hopefully wake up ravenous. I’ve left her water, but she can’t eat until I know she won’t just pitch it up again.” The girl shook her head, the nest of knotted curls at her ears hardly moving.  “ _Maesters_ ,” she snorted. “What good are they? Her symptoms were treated, but that was it.  A healer goes _into_ the body, finds the root and plucks it from the core.” 

He did not care if she decided to sow the plot, as long as it helped Brienne.  But all he did was nod his thanks, which seemed to satisfy her, and sunk down with the wood at his back to eat his dinner, keeping his ear to Brienne’s room. 

The night passed with only soft moans from inside and voices, sounds of work, still progressing through the darkness, drifting up the tower from below.  Few passed by, but all that did moved with hurried steps as Jaime scowled at them. 

It was only with the sudden yip of dogs, shouts, and shards of light breaking free from under Brienne’s door that Jaime knew it was morning.  He did not move to explore the commotion, though he was sure it was signaling the arrival of the rest of the party, for fear he would miss Brienne waking.  But nothing came from her room before Taina returned with yet another load pressed to her chest and another litany of frowns as she squeezed inside the room, the brightness within keeping Jaime from snatching any glimpses of Brienne. 

When she came out much later, she offered Jaime a bowl of thick porridge sweetened with round, red berries, and a second skin of water.  “She’s better,” she said without any prompting.  “Still cooked on the inside but the fever broke and she ate what I brought her. Eat yourself and then you can go in, but not for long.  It’ll take her at least a fortnight to recover fully.  She’s been fighting this sickness for some time.” She looked at him as if he were at fault and then flounced down the stairs, leaving him alone once again. 

Immediately, he turned the knob and tried to quietly enter Brienne’s room, though the hinges protested at having to stretch so wide for his larger form.  She turned to the sound and Jaime caught her attempting to rise, despite it being clear she was still fighting her own fatigue. 

“Wench, what are you doing?” he hissed, quickly setting the bowl down on the floor and moving to her side.  He gently pushed at her shoulder but she shook her head and clutched his arms to keep standing.  “That girl will have my head if you leave.” 

“I can’t stay here,” she argued as she tried to slip away from him.  Snaking his arm around her new tunic, he held her close, having to keep her from sliding down to the floor under her weak legs.  “Let me go.” 

“No,” Jaime frowned. 

Brienne looked longingly to the cracked door and he could see that she had stopped sweating and her hair had been brushed and pulled back from her face.  “We-we shouldn’t have-“ 

“What?” He nearly released her when he realized what she was trying to say.  “Well, we did, wench.  Don’t even start this.” 

“We have a duty-“ 

“And we’ll damn well serve it, but that has nothing to do with us fucking.” He shook her, hoping that, or his crude, would make her look at him.  “Did you not want it?” 

“Yes, but...” She had not paused, though she also could not meet his gaze.  

“Did you not like it?” 

“I think I did, but that doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “They wouldn’t understand.” 

Jaime laughed, causing Brienne to finally land her blue eyes on him, searching and shocked and angered, and a still a little wild. “They wouldn’t understand why I want to take care of you?” 

“That’s not-“ 

“It _is_ ,” he protested.  “They understood when you tended to me, when you touched me in front of them, unashamed. I will do the same for you.” With that, he wrangled his hand into her hair in the same moment he pressed his mouth harshly to hers, catching her jerk back in his palm.  He had tried to be gentle and patient, but all it had done was give her room to skitter and retreat.  So, now he took her, slipping his relief and desire into her with the slide of his tongue, sinking his teeth into her bottom lip and with it, his frustration, keeping her tightly eclipsed in his arms. 

Surprisingly, she fisted his dirty tunic and fought to match his passion, moaning when he nipped and sighing when he soothed. Jaime tasted the herbs she had drank along the slickness of her tongue and he delved deeper to capture the flavor while pressing himself wholly against her large body so that he could feel her tremble and buckle, falling into him. 

Finally, he let her go, dropping her softly back on the cot when it was evident she could no longer stand by herself. She clutched the edge, drawing in ragged breaths and gathering her thoughts.  But, just as she lifted her head and opened her mouth to speak, Jaime threw his hand up to stop her.  He pulled it up further to dig his fingers into his scalp, noting that Brienne followed the movement, running it around in the hopes it would clear his head. 

“I’m going.  But only if you stay here,” he said.  She nodded reluctantly and it was enough for him to make his way to the door, though he paused before leaving.  “I’ve heard every reason for hiding, Brienne.  I had not thought to hear them echoed by you.” 

“Jaime-“ 

He slammed the door on her plea. 

Then he promptly threw his fist into the unforgiving wall, roaring at the pain reverberating through his wrist and the anger flashing to burn it up.  He swiveled on his heel, hoping some air and a proper meal, and a flask of dark wine to drown in, would temper the fire inside.  But he turned right into a tussle of graying curls and a surprise marked with cold eyes and leathered wrinkles as Maege Mormont climbed the stairs. 

“Seven hells, isn’t there enough of you women?” he barked as he slid by her and the booming sound of her laughter followed him down the tower. 

Thankfully, when he stepped into the dilapidated courtyard, blinking at the bright sunlight streaming through rock and leaf, he was met with Clegane and Addam crouched nearby, sharing chars of meat. He sunk to the hard ground beside them, being handed a stick packed with tender frog and flaking fish. 

“Starks arrived,” Addam reported. He had changed, something Jaime was beginning to desire to do, though he looked haggard and there was a sharp slice glistening with ointment from his temple to his cheek.  “Reed said Brienne was better.” 

“Not fully mended, though,” Jaime replied, tearing into the giving flesh and crunching on the singed skin. 

“Lady Sansa sent Lady Maege to check on her and then we are to meet with the council.” 

Jaime grunted uncaringly at that, knowing his foul mood was palpable.  He could even taste it in the bitter black flakes of his food.  “Was the battle yesterday just the right amount of blood for the Northern gods to finally grant us seats?” 

“Heirs can be replaced,” Clegane said. “Strongholds can’t.” 

 _Lannister. Stark.  Baratheon.  We’re all the same._ Jaime knew Tyrion would have liked the thought, though he could hear his brother’s cackle at the image of Jaime in a war meeting with the wolves. 

By the time they were finished and rising, Maege Mormont reappeared. With one long, calculating gaze at Jaime, she turned and strode towards the Children's Tower, where Reed had seemed to claim his quarters.  The men followed the swish of her morningstar as it tapped against the breeches she had donned for the journey. 

"What do they feed women in the North?" Addam muttered as he watched her. 

"You seemed hungry for it enough, sniffing at the skirt of that young she-bear," Clegane said. 

"Better bear than wolf," Addam sneered. 

Clegane laughed, though Jaime suspected Addam would find himself bruised and battered for it, later on.  "It makes no matter the beast as long as they are warm and willing." 

Jaime snorted at that.  _If only it were ever so easy_. 

The Children's Tower was a crumbled ruin, yet the air still floated with ground up stone and the sound of rocks settling made it feel as if it had only just recently fallen.  Jaime's heart pounded and his skin pimpled at the notion of the room collapsing on them, the remaining teetering walls pushed over by small, powerful hands. 

Reed, and two of his crannogmen, the Stark girls, Dacey, and Lord Galbert were all huddled by a folding table with an alligator hide map laid out before it.  The sunlight, bouncing in from the shorn top of the tower, cast enough brightness to fill the entry hall.  Yet they all sought the warmth directly piercing down from above and Jaime wondered if Reed had recounted to the heirs how the crannogmen had slowly poisoned half of the ironborn garrison, forcing them to feast on their brothers, before they had arrived to grant mercy to the rest. 

"Ser Jaime," Sansa greeted. "Ser Addam...Clegane. Lord Howland was just recounting to us of your bravery in battle." 

"There are no brave men in war," Maege chimed in.  "Only those more desperate to live." 

"Or more enjoying of killing," the Hound rumbled. 

Sansa frowned and turned questioningly to Reed, who only nodded for her to continue.  "I-I thank you for your swords in gaining this valuable fortress for the Starks. I will...consider it a sign of your loyalty to my house." 

Jaime proudly bit his tongue to keep from replying. _One siege does not make a bannerman.  Ask us who we fight for when we are tired and injured and retaking your_ tenth _stronghold, sweet maid_. But he thought about Brienne's words. _They will not understand_.  They may not have known war and the game, yet, but these Northerners knew loss. 

"Lady Sansa and Lady Arya cannot linger here long, though," Reed said.  "We need to find them safe hiding in the North." 

"I would offer you Bear Island," Maege sighed.  "But I fear we would not make the journey." 

“Not in one straight path,” Reed agreed. He pointed to a black star on the map and all moved forward to see where he had landed.  “White Harbor should be the first city that the Starks take back.” 

“I thought they had sworn allegiance to the Lannisters,” Ser Addam frowned. 

“Lord Manderly has, but there is more to the man than a belly.  He has a great mind, too, and seeing Sansa Stark in his court may sway his faithfulness.” 

“Why would we want to trust such a man so easily persuaded?” Lady Sansa asked. 

Reed smiled kindly at her.  “I did not say it would be simple.  The North believes the Starks to be gone, while they are attacked on the west by the ironborn.” His finger dragged along the map to Blazewater Bay. “Within, by the Boltons.” He pointed to Winterfell.  “And above by Stannis Baratheon.” He tapped on The Wall.  “Your bannermen are simply trying to adjust and survive, my lady. But they _will_ remember their ancient vows to your family.” 

“Especially those houses to the east,” Jaime interjected while he studied the map.  “If you mean to avoid the other dangers, then you must be planning to take Manderly’s ships and sail up the White Knife.” He feigned trying to sort through it all, though it was as clear as if Reed had drawn out the path before them. “Which leaves you right in the middle of Last Hearth and the Dreadfort.” 

“I’ve never heard you be called an unintelligent man, Kingslayer,” Reed chuckled. 

“Probably because I killed anyone who did,” Jaime snapped. He could see why this man was a friend of the _respectable_ Eddard Stark. 

Dacey shook her head.  “The Dreadfort is near impossible to siege, even with the crannogmen’s style.” 

“Yes, I remember now,” Arya piped up excitedly, recalling her lessons, most likely.  “It took Harlon Stark two years before the Boltons surrendered.” 

“We don’t _have_ two years,” Sansa sighed. 

“But all you need is to trap them.” Jaime folded his arms and eyed Reed.  “Convince Umber to bend the knee as well and you can attack, or sit, from all sides, cutting off the Boltons from their own home and keeping the rest inside.” 

“That leaves Karhold and Hornwood in the west,” Arya smiled. 

Maege Mormont nodded.  “Karhold will be difficult to convince, stalwart old bugger that he is, but no one will forget what that bastard Bolton did to Lady Hornwood.” She spat into the ground.  

“Bolton ain’t your problem, nor even the Greyjoys,” Clegane said.  “Stannis Baratheon is the one with the army and if he’s in the North, like you say, he’s going to make sure he sticks a hot poker up every arse that isn’t bowed on the ground to kiss his feet.” 

“White Harbor and Last Hearth may indeed be safe refuges for Lady Sansa and Lady Arya,” Lord Glover consented. “And we can certainly make the Stark army grow.  But we need Stannis on our side.” 

With a groan, Jaime tried to run a calming palm over his beard, letting the bristles pierce his calluses, searching for something to ground him.  He had hoped to leave behind anyone that he had come across in King’s Landing and focus on not being anything but a soldier.  And Brienne’s. 

Sansa frowned.  “Perhaps we could call him king if he agreed to allow us to rule our home as we see fit.” 

“If there’s one matter I agree with my family about, it’s that Westeros will never accept Stannis on the Iron Throne, “ Jaime said. _Or my offspring._  

“All we need from Stannis is for help to take back the North,” Reed interjected. 

Maege grunted at that and tossed her large hands up. “This is not for us to decide. We agreed that we would show Jon Snow King Robb’s letter and let him determine if he wishes to take the seat of Winterfell and make these rulings.”  

 _Well, this is new_. “You have all agreed to Ned Stark’s bastard?” Jaime keenly inquired. 

“Swords don’t talk,” the she-bear warned. 

“Lannisters do.” 

“Lannisters lie,” Glover interjected. 

“Please,” Sansa hastily said. “My…our father would have wanted this. Robb wanted this.” 

Jaime shrugged.  _Tyrion had liked the boy well enough. That’s got to mean something. Or everything._ “A sword is wielded by whomever picks it up.” 

“Then we leave for White Harbor,” Glover said. 

“But... I’m not going without Brienne.” 

"The Starks cannot stay here more than a few days," Reed reminded him. 

Jaime turned to the young, pretty thing that would become the figurehead of the North, the sweet face that would make thousands of men bend the knee and fall to the earth, never to rise.  "My lady, I will give you my sword, as Lady Brienne already has.  But I ask that you let me stay with her." 

"Of course you may, Ser Jaime," Sansa smiled. Her blue eyes sparked and her mouth twitched slightly while he wondered what songs and stories of knights and maidens were dancing in her head.  Or perhaps she was simply preoccupied with concocting the nightmare that was the Kingslayer taking one of her bannermen to bed. 

"I shall stay with my men," Reed offered. "And can send a party with any that remain until Brienne is strong enough to march.  They will make for White Harbor, then." 

"So it begins," Glover muttered. 

 _The fool is late if he thinks that_.  

Jaime bowed to the Starks, Sansa nodding and Arya ignoring him, and left swiftly to seek out Brienne, knowing she would want to hear the news, though he was not as eager to be alone with her again as he should have been.  He noticed Clegane and Addam watch him depart, no doubt determining if he expected them to stay or follow. Discounting even how they dogged the Northerners, he preferred they set out immediately. The more men to protect the wolves, the better, and, with Ser Bonifer and Peck, the more former Lannisters that could gain favor with the Northern lords, the easier the path would be laid for Jaime to follow.  Not that he cared how he was perceived.  But he did like his head attached to his shoulders.  And he was tired of the worried frowns Brienne cast whenever he was amongst the Starks. 

He imagined the scowl she would give him now, subsequently returning so shortly after promising to stay away. For a moment, he considered letting Dacey tell her what had been decided.  But Dacey would not be staying with Brienne.  Even if he was exiled from the tower, Jaime would not leave the wench behind. 

Without knocking, he opened her door and found her sitting on the cot, drinking tea from a dented mug.  The room was still heavy with the hanging aroma of herbs and sickness, but when she looked up in surprise at being interrupted, her cheeks colored nicely at the sight of him. 

"You said you would go," she rasped. He could not tell if it was the drink or her fever that had dried her throat but when she coughed, he was relieved to hear it was not as wet as it had been earlier. 

"Leave in what respect, we did not discuss," Jaime replied and grinned when she scoffed at him and quickly looked down to her cup.  "But we'll speak of it now, since I just came from a council meeting." 

" _You_?" 

This time, it was he that scowled at her. "Yes, wench. You are the only one left around here to think of me so poorly.  I can't fathom it could be from how I took you just yesterday.  So I'll assume it's from your mind boiling from that fever." 

"What did they say?" She ignored his words, but turned to him curiously. 

"I didn't ask but I would think they'd agree your illness has made you quite mad.  Who would not want me in their bed?" 

"Jaime." 

He sighed and moved to sit on the end of her cot, her feet retreating so she could curl her arms around her knees, keeping herself out of his reach.  He wanted to yank her back and crawl up her again, but, for now, he let her withdraw. "They are leaving soon to entreat with Manderly at White Harbor and, if successful, will go up the White Knife to Umber at Last Hearth.  Then some will head to the Wall with Robb's letter of succession to see if Jon Snow will take the seat of Winterfell and also to offer Stannis an alliance-" 

"The Starks should not align with that man," Brienne exclaimed.  Her face twisted in anger and concern, making her pretty blue eyes flash and the rest of her look even uglier.  

But all Jaime could see was another filling the space between them and this time, it was not Cersei's thin, wicked form. "Still seeking retribution for your precious tulip?" 

"He was my sworn king-" 

"And now you're sworn to another, whose vengeance is your own.  What matters should be the Starks reclaiming the North, by whatever means they can." 

She looked at him beseechingly, though Jaime thought he saw it laced with pity.  Was her betrayal so effortlessly painted on him? "Stannis will deceive them. King Robb knew that." 

"And this has nothing to do with your lost love?" Jaime snorted. 

"No! No." She could not even look at him. "Jaime, I...I-" 

"That is all yet to come, anyway. The point is that we will have to try to catch up to the rest since you can't leave right away." 

"We?" She tilted her head up to regard him again, though his gaze flitted away quickly enough.  "No, you have to go with them.  You have to protect Sansa and Arya, guide them." 

"They have plenty of swords and I'm no tactician or politician.  I came here with you and I'm leaving with you." 

She blushed, but stubbornly shook her head, hair flying and sticking out.  “If I can’t be there, I’d feel better knowing that you were watching them.” 

“And improving my reputation amongst the Starks?” She was still too easy to read, too easy to anger, and too easy to follow. “I would have thought with all of the whispers behind your back and taunts to your unattractive face that you would have learned to ignore the opinions of others.” Jaime should have been ashamed by the tremble of her lip, but she bit it to keep from shaking, and she was at least too hardened to cry in front of him.  His anger was fueled enough to wash out any lingering guilt, anyway, and it loosened his tongue.  “The Starks have accepted me, as they should, since I saved both of their lives, and yours. It’s just you that still considers me to be every bit the king slayer I’m made out to be.” 

Jumping from beneath the blankets, Brienne stood, fists clenched as if to strike him and mouth working like she would kiss him. “You are being infuriating and unfair. I am not some fragile thing to be coddled.  I will be fine recovering here alone and you are needed with Lady Sansa and Arya.” 

“Do you remember what I said about being tired of following you, wench?” He snapped, rising as well and rushing forward to invade her space. He had to look up at her now, but he hardly cared.  His hands had learned where to snake around her neck, sliding behind her ear and grasping a clump of straw hair, and to grip a malleable patch of flesh above her hip, one that would make her gasp and move to his whim.  Using his hold on her, he pulled them together, forcing her chin down while he strained to reach up to kiss her. 

It was supposed to make her melt in to him, to be the woman that she was just for him.  _Mine_.  Together.  And while she pressed back and wrapped her arms around his neck in return, and he could feel her strength in the tightness of her muscles and how she was careful not to squeeze him too hard, it was Jaime that surrendered.  They were a constant battle and yet, finally, they found themselves fighting on the same side and he would not give up the feel of her shifting against his chest, sighing into his mouth, and learning to suckle at his lip when they were alone.  She just had to stop being afraid. 

With an audible tear of their kiss, Brienne stumbled away, panting and red faced.  “Jaime, please.  I want you to go.” 

“Don’t worry,” he snarled, enjoying her flinch and her flutter of fingertips against the wide lips that were raw from his nibbling. “I won’t touch you again.” 

The crumble of her face, like an avalanche of freckles taking down a mountain, should have clenched his heart. Turning away from her, he stormed towards the door, the sob that escaped when he opened it would have sent him scrambling back to her, all kisses and begging forgiveness, had Jaime not known better. Not this time, though. Not ever again. And he would not make her hurt as well. 

He pushed it all aside as he stalked down the tower, hating how the sun streamed merrily and struck him as soon as he re-entered the court. It followed him for the rest of the day, glaring while he snapped and snarled at any who dared to speak to him. But he was a lone lion amongst wolves and had to bow his head when the girls passed, while the Mormont women simply snorted like their sigil and tossed their heads in amusement at his sulking. Even the Hound took no notice when Jaime bared his fangs as he tried to offer him some stolen, watered wine. He took it, though, ignoring the burn scars melting and dripping as Clegane grinned darkly from the unharmed side of his face. 

His pride and anger did not keep him from seeking out Tiana after she had climbed up twice to take care of Brienne. Despite being as cool and judging as before with him before, her frown was softened, hardly the cutting thing it had been. The wench was exhausted, she reported, and still confused from the fever, but she was sleeping well and eating enough.  She was healing, _bodily_ , the girl had pointedly told him.  But Jaime knew Brienne was capable of recovering completely, too. 

So, when both nights swallowed up the setting sun sending brilliant rays through the leaves of the swamp, he would look up at the glowing orange and flickering windows of the tower, finding the ones that belonged to Brienne’s room.  After a beat, he would swivel around and head to the tent that Addam had set up, crawling inside to spend the rest of the evening tossing and staring at the canvas and wooden poles.  If he did fall asleep momentarily, he would awake thinking that the warm, muscled form beside him was Brienne, only to have his mind catch up to his body and recall where he was.  And where she was. 

The days he spent preoccupying himself with helping to pack up the small boats that would move the departing party through the rest of the Neck.  But he could not bring himself to put his own armor with the rest.  Instead, his meager belongings sat in a solitary pile against the moss and stone of the tower while he moved about assisting others to load their own. He tried to ignore it and what it meant, how much he wanted to cart it all back up those steps and dump it in that room.  But he was not that man, now. 

When the morning arrived for the Starks and their men to make the perilous journey out of the swamps and towards the large and bustling city of White Harbor, Jaime’s movements slowed to dragging as a weight clamped to his ankles.  “I’m not leaving,” he told Addam as he helped to roll up the tent. 

“I know,” his friend responded without even looking up from his task.  “Everyone knows.” 

“I trust you’ll take care of the Starks.” 

“I’ve taken care of _you_ just fine,” Addam snorted, tossing him a glance as he passed over the pack.  “It’s when you left that you got into all sorts of trouble.” 

Jaime chuckled, looking down at the bundle in his hands as Addam moved on.  

“Jaime.” He lifted his head, sure he had imagined the soft and urgent call of his name.  But there was Brienne, hovering unsurely in all her hunched bulkiness at the edge of the chaos as the group scrambled to depart.  She did not pay any heed to those that darted between their sights, momentarily breaking the piercing and demanding stare that she had set on him.  Though she still appeared pale and weak, her hair a mat plastered against her head and her freckles dull splatters across her flesh, her blue gaze was a darkened swirl of rich sea as she watched him.  “Jaime.” 

Dropping the pack, he walked towards her. She did not make him go all the way, though, and stepped forward as well.  They converged in the midst of the bustle, but Jaime did not see or hear any of it, so enthralled was he in how Brienne shyly approached, a hesitant smile gracing her thick lips and her hands a twist and roll as she wound them around each other. 

“Come to see me off, wench?” he sneered when they were close enough that all he had to do was rock on his toes to kiss her. He did not, though, knowing what it would lead to.  But he was not going to make it easy on her.  Being this near, seeing the torment in her flitting gaze, a dark part of him hoped this was tearing her up just as much as it was him. 

“Don’t go.” 

“What?” Before he could even comprehend her quiet words, his smirk was relaxing into a smile. 

“Don’t…” she sighed, looking at him to stop her. _Oh no_. _This is not going to be effortless_.  “Don’t go.  I’m sorry, Jaime. I want you to stay. I-I still think you _should_ go, but…” 

“But?” 

“But if Lady Stark is willing, perhaps we could travel together, when I’m better?” 

He reached out to cease her clammy hands from sliding against each other and laced her fingers securely within his own. Though he expected her to let him, he was, in part, still surprised and pleased when she let their pressed palms drop together. “Wench,” he murmured in to her ear, for all the others looking like a lover sharing a secret. “I wasn’t planning on ever going anywhere.” _I just needed you to meet me halfway._


	26. The Reason For Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over my time in this fandom, I've learned of the many different ways to beta. It makes me feel even luckier that I ended up with one who fits my style perfectly. Especially for someone who does not always work well with others, I am truly grateful with how easy and comfortable my relationship has been with Coraleeveritas from the very beginning. It makes sense now as we have become very good friends and have learned that we share similar traits, but there is not a day of me writing that has gone by that I do not feel so special to have someone who gets me so well. It has been a pure joy to work with Coralee and I know that bond will not end after this story.
> 
> I'm also so appreciative of the amazing Sandwichesyumyum. I don't deserve the messages and notes of gifs of her reactions to what I send her but I love them all the same. They always give me that boost right before the pressure of posting and to know that she is there to support me is a great gift I will never forget!
> 
> I'm definitely excited for the reactions on this chapter!

Brienne waited alongside the Mormonts, watching while the Lannister men knelt in the packed earth and stone of the courtyard of Moat Cailin. Lady Sansa and Arya stood before them, the youngest giddy with the sight of the knights bowed to her and her sister, chin high and expression stern as she called out the practiced litany of vows that they would take.  Her voice was clear and cutting, like the crisp air on a wintry day, faltering back into the young girl she still was only once.  But, poised and undisturbed by neither the heat nor the moment, as she rang out oaths just like the ones that had bound Brienne, there was no mistaking the image of a young Catelyn Stark.  _May her fate be forever free from following the same path, though_. 

Despite the solemnness of the morning and how Lady Sansa's words halted every man and woman from their tasks, Brienne was drawn to Jaime.  He stooped in front of the others, all on one knee with heads lowered and backs bent, while he sat straight and was too obviously staring at Brienne throughout.  She was recovering from the worst of her illness, yet the jade scan of his gaze running over her body left her sweating through the gooseflesh prickling over her skin. He was smiling widely, but she knew all too well the predatory look and the curl of his lips, marking his desire and amusement. 

 _He is going to stay.  With me_. It was a fleeting, skittish thought that seemed to scurry away whenever she tried to snatch it. But the heat of it could burn her if caught and while it was a light, airy dream, it would fill and consume her mind with thoughts of their nights swirling around each other and their days of sparring, when she was healthier, and arguing.  And the smiles that would tug at their lips.  They were soldiers caught in what would be an endless winter of battles, but it mattered little with Jaime beside her, and only hers. _Mine_. She bit her ugly grin, saving it for when they were alone and he would mock her for it, kisses chasing his words. 

When Lady Sansa had finished, and the Lannister men rose as Starks, each approached to kiss her hand.  The young maiden blushed prettily at this and by the time it was Clegane's turn she was as red as a rose.  Yet, from Brienne's position, she caught Ser Addam, still bent over, reach out to grab Dacey's fingers just as he dropped Lady Sansa's, placing his lips to her knuckles so quickly Brienne could have blinked and missed it. 

As Dacey smiled behind her sudden cough and Addam backed away, watching her, Brienne recalled Lady Maege’s words to her on her sick bed, having not expected her visit, thinking that Jaime would eventually return to bicker. 

“You think you are the only woman to ever fall for the wrong man?” the she-bear had scoffed.  “Wars and songs are built on such foolery.  And while I will enjoy tales of the Maid of Tarth and the Kingslayer, yours will be just one of many.” 

Brienne had tried to protest, to spew out the jagged edges of concerns and fears and nightmares that still plagued her, hoping to make room for the sweeter thoughts of Jaime sliding between her thighs as he looked down at her as if she was something fierce and precious.  But all she had managed was a “Lady Sansa-” before the woman was waving her large hands about. 

“Lady Sansa has greater worries, I assure you.” Crossing her arms and turning towards the door, she had begun grumbling to herself.  “If she did not, she may have noticed that the Kingslayer is not the sole Lannister to have his eyes on one of her female bannermen.” 

As Brienne noticed the blush covering Dacey’s cheeks while she hid her gaze and walked away, she realized now what Lady Maege had been referring to. She had well understood the rest of what was said the other day, though. 

“I’m certainly not condoning openly flirting with the man. Charming and handsome though he may be, he’s going to need his looks and his wits to win over the rest of the North. But there aren’t much for cities and courts this side of the Neck and few will concern themselves with where you lay. Or with whom.” 

It was apparent that Lady Maege had accepted the growing familiarity between her daughter and the Kingslayer’s childhood friend and it had given Brienne hope that perhaps she was not betraying anyone by following her own heart. She had seen Jaime for the man that he truly was, after all, and now that he was just that, without titles, save the one that hounded him the most, it would be easier for others to accept him as well. 

He may have easily left a stained cloak and an unwanted sister behind, without a glance back, but he had also lost a beloved brother in his flight to save Brienne.  Jaime had sacrificed for her.  The least she could do was tamper the voices in her head berating her for being a thoughtless, heartsick maiden, for she was _that_ no longer.   

"Did you get wicked ideas seeing me on my knees, wench?" Jaime had sidled up to her to murmur as she had lost herself in the she-bear’s words. 

"No," she blushed, working to look him in the eye.  "I often have you as such a _nd_ telling me that you yield." 

The surprised and entertained arch of a golden brow was well worth the flush in her cheeks.  "Oh? We shall see, once you've recuperated." Undaunted by her sniff of challenge, he leaned in and she was the one to relinquish her space to the man that was welcome in it. "For now, though, there are plenty of other activities to occupy us.  And much more you have to learn." 

"I'm quick to study." 

"Just another quality to admire in the...well, in _Brienne of Tarth_ ," he chuckled. 

He was always a quick response, an easy roll of tongue, letting his moods wash over him and sweep him out to the sea of delight or anger or passion, wherever the tides went.  It was such a simple thing and Brienne knew she was caught in the pull, but she had begun to wonder what the man was like before his choices had led him to the day where from when it was others that determined who he was. 

Brienne recalled Lord Howland's visit to her on the previous day. She had thought, surely, this time it was Jaime returning to her.  But when it was not, she could not have stopped herself from asking the crannogman about his past with Jaime if she had wanted. 

"Have you two met before?" She had inquired. 

The small, lean man cast a dark eye upon her, leaning heavily on his staff. “Not precisely.” 

“It just….it just seemed that you knew each other,” she pressed. 

“Well, I _was_ at Harrenhal when he was knighted.” 

The vision of a young, eager Jaime Lannister was difficult for Brienne to create. She could fancy him beautiful and pure, white cloak draped upon his strong shoulders, crisp like new snow, soft, sure hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword trembling slightly with his pride. But his bright gaze shifted to carry a dangerous, knowing glint and the merry smile would curl into something tinged with bitterness and anger.  And then he was the Jaime she knew, not the one she imagined, who, while more lovely than her, could share her excitement, the kind she had possessed when King Renly had given her his rainbow cloak. 

“What was he like?” 

“He was more arrogant than he is now, if you can believe,” Lord Howland had chuckled.  Suddenly, Brienne felt like she was cheating by learning about Jaime from someone else besides him. But she was in an isle of just the two of them, marooned and thirsty and any sight of land was a relief. “He was a tumult of barely contained fury when King Aerys sent him away at his own tourney. But I recall how he held his head high, even amongst all the other notable and proven knights.” Sitting down with a winded sigh, he continued.  “I could tell you more about the man that was his mentor, if you would like.” 

Brienne nodded.  She knew that Ser Arthur Dayne had been a warrior forged from sunlight and stories, one whom she had grown up dreaming of, a faceless man in white.  But, Jaime had also been a ruined man to her back then, bathed in blood and betrayal, one that she had known she should never trust. Perhaps she had been wrong about both. 

“He was everything you could dream to be,” he had said.  “He was the best, everyone said it, everyone knew it. Yet, doesn’t every squire and student wish to prove themselves against their tutor? It must have been quite difficult for a proud boy like Jaime Lannister to always live in that massive shadow.” 

 _Jaime would say that he’s doing just fine, since he’s the one still breathing._  

“And yet, I doubt he’s grateful to me for removing his greatest competition. Perhaps he prefers that the Sword of the Morning never knew what kind of man his apprentice turned out to be. But few recall what _Ser Arthur_ had to do to obey his king. You see, Lady Brienne, there are strong, brave, dutiful men in this world but that does not always make _good_ men.” 

“Is that why you let Ser Jaime walk freely in your castle?” 

“No.” As Lord Howland had stood and stared down at her, Brienne knew this was all he would say on the matter.  “He killed his king.  And yet what has he done since? I was not concerned about him for that single act that was so long ago you were but a child.  I let Ser Jaime be a guest in my house because _you_ walked beside him.”   

 _I will always walk beside him_ , Brienne thought as she watched the other Lannister men begin loading their packs into boats, the sounds of their approaching departure drawing her out of her head.  "Are you the only one staying?" she asked Jaime. 

"Yes,” he replied.  “You wanted to ensure the Starks were safe and, while Addam and Clegane hardly match my skills, they’ll be adequate enough protecting the girls." 

"If something were to happen to them, Jaime..." She let the rest hang in the air like the heavy mist that clung to a battlefield, rising like smoke from the cooling bodies. 

"I know, Brienne," Jaime grunted.  "We will do all we can.  We swore it, didn't we?" 

 _Yes. He has sworn.  The Kingslayer gave his blade and his life again. How many times has Jaime mocked me for much of the same vows?_ "We have.  And I thank you for that, Ser Jaime." 

He rolled his eyes, green grass swirling in a breeze, and looked up at her. "Quickest oath I ever made. I’m going to have to defend the Starks, anyway, to keep you alive so I may as well let them sleep easier knowing I’m bound.  There's only one vow that would be easier to make and I haven't given it you yet." 

Brienne frowned, but she knew better than to let him lead her where she was not quite ready to go.  So, they remained in silence, looking on as the rest of the party boarded the small crafts. Dacey smiled and gave a brief arc of her hand from her spot with Lady Sansa, who turned to nod to them both, and Clegane.  Behind them, Ser Addam flicked his fingers in the barest of waves, while Arya gave a more enthusiastic one.  In response, Jaime placed a firm palm on her shoulder and lifted the other to sweepingly encompass them all just as the first poles were dipped into the water and the boats began to move. Brienne simply managed a weak turn of her lips, breaking them open to expose her teeth, as the others looked on, floating away from the fortress. 

“They’ll all be fine,” Jaime murmured to her as he dropped his hand. 

They did not move, though, even when Lord Howland and the remaining crannogmen drifted and parted to continue their duties.  They stayed and watched until not even Lady Sansa’s brilliant auburn hair could be discerned amongst the vast expanse of green. And still, Brienne watched, wondering if she was waiting to hear screams and see smoke, some great signal that she had failed once again.  But if news did come, she imagined it would be on a simple, harmless scrap of parchment, ink bleeding through the fibers speaking of the end of it all. 

 _We’re here. We’re alive_.  It was all they had now, this odd band of men and women that had become the last hope for the Starks and the North.  Brienne could never have believed that she would be standing with the Kingslayer idly curling his fingers around splitstrands of hair at the base of her neck.  And that the pair of them would be watching as they sent off the last of the Starks with a woman that Brienne could truly call her friend, and with enemies that had risked their lives for her own, who had survived and found new lives to settle in to, so far away from their former home. 

“They’ll all be fine,” she echoed, closing her eyes and trying to concentrate on the tingles against her eyelids as Jaime used the wrap of her hair to pull her head back so his fingernails could calmly rake through it. 

Though Jaime was here now and already teasing her enough to coax her back to her room, she had been surprised when he had not returned in the previous days to convince her to agree that he should stay.  Each noise outside of her room that had not been him was a drop in her empty stomach.  But the disappointment eventually rolled and melted into a burning pride that he was no longer the man that had to chase after anyone.  

So, she had rested and eaten and when she awoke every time, her arms ached to wrap around a strong, lean chest the air vacant without the scent of leather and sweat and deep spices for her to bury her nose in.  She took comfort in the knowledge that Jaime was simply elsewhere in the stronghold, helping to pack or rebuild the fortifications, working with the Starks beneath the heat and humidity, his tunic plastered to his body as he lifted and carried.  But he could be much further away than merely some steps down a tower, fighting and dying for a cause that was only his own because of her.  She would not be there to protect him or, at the least, die beside him, in her current condition.  

The sharp squeeze of her breath while she forced herself to consider such an outcome had little to do with her diminishing illness.  And she had known it.  Taking in gasps of damp air, she had dressed quickly that morning and slipped down the stairs, colliding with the walls as she hurried to catch him before he left her and she would have to wait and worry and beg the Maiden not to take him for her foolishness. She had hardly noticed, nor cared, about who would witness her ask the Kingslayer to stay, though she had berated herself for expecting him to toss her aside and leave without a word. She knew Jaime just as she knew every hideous blotch on her skin and he could be cruel and cutting, but he was far from heartless.  _And he wants me.  All of me_. 

“You must be tired from all the excitement of the morning,” Jaime finally interrupted her thoughts while she stared unseeing at where the rest had disappeared. “I’ll escort you back to your room and then try to get those dents out of our armor.  I can hardly manage to get into my breastplate now.”

“No,” she hurriedly said.  “I had….I had asked you to… _stay_.” 

Jaime grinned darkly, his golden lashes caging the gleam of his eyes as he closed them slightly, as if relishing her clumsy reply. “Mmmmmm, you did. You know by now that I’m not a noble or patient man, Brienne.” He left the rest to be a spark and a thrill of tension coiled between them, but she boldly took his hand, regardless of the veiled promise and threat of his demanding touch, and tugged them back towards the tower. 

They quietly ascended the steps, shoulders brushing, taking longer than it should, since Jaime insisted on leaning over her every few steps, to press his wet lips to a patch of tightly patterned freckles on her throat. The brush of his beard along her collar was a prickle that made her swallow a silly giggle, and the third time he tried to press her against the wall, she shoved him away without thought, other than the need to rub the flickers on her skin before he could see her melt into a fit.  But she had forgotten her strength, for the moment, so consumed was she beneath Jaime’s power, and he banged down several steps before his fingers could dig into the stone to stop his descent. 

“Jaime,” she gasped.  “I’m sorry-“ 

“Seven hells, you better run, wench,” he snarled from below, laughing when he saw her shock and annoyance.  “You can’t bully the Kingslayer around.” 

She snorted and then turned to flee up the rest of the stairs, listening to his chuckles as he still fought to keep his footing, boots tripping and palms slapping the walls as he knocked around, trying to catch her. He should have known by now that she was big, but she was also fast, and she managed to make it to her door before Jaime was close enough to snatch her.  Though, after a few heartbeats of fumbling with the handle, he was a press against her back, a drumming beat as she felt his heart slam against his chest and reverberate through her, a damp heat as he caught his breath near her ear, pausing to peck her neck and shoulder.  His hand wound around hers still trying to open the door and helped her to turn it, sending them stumbling inside. 

 _How can we both feel like such young, giddy things after all we have seen and done? Is this a taste of a summer we will never know?_ Brienne would take it, though, and hold it close to her heart as long as she could. 

Without losing a moment, Jaime’s fingers were at the hem of her tunic, lifting it before she could realize he was baring her flat, muscled chest to the bright sunlight, bathing her pale, scared skin in golden brilliance tinged with green.  She tried to grab the fabric to cover herself, but Jaime predicted her movement and tossed it behind him.  _He knows me too well_ , she thought as he lifted his brows, challenging her to protest. 

She reached for his own tunic and he let her pull it over his head, falling in a heap with her own.  Unsure of what she was supposed to do next, Brienne stared at the light playing with the curls of hair on his chest, the pucker of his nipples, though it warmer in the room than it had been outside, and the bead of sweating rolling across the plains of his stomach to fall into the waist of his breeches.  The muscles along his sides shifted as he stepped forward, his skin filling her view as he reached up to cup her cheek and kiss her. 

Unlike the angry battle of mouths they had shared the past days, Jaime kept his lips a brush against her own, allowing her to tilt her head to discover how they fit together, how she could press harder without catching his teeth, how he seemed to like when her tongue darted out on its own accord to taste each of his lips. All the while, he was full of steady exhales as he kept his control, one hand balled into her hair and the other squeezing her hip as he calmed himself. 

But she wanted more, she realized.  She wanted Jaime to let go, just as he had begged her to do for him. So, she opened her mouth and he recognized just when she had surrendered, tipping his chin so he could dive his tongue inside while he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and her waist, pulling them together until there was not even space for a blade of grass, until they were one body, sharing frantic breaths and heartbeats. 

Trying to grip him tighter, her palms slid and her nails scrabbled on slick skin starting to bud with sweat, distracted by Jaime’s hums into her chin as he broke away from her mouth to run his teeth along her throat. She gave up on attempting to hold him and found that she was just running her hands up and down his back, urging him to continue turning her neck into a red rash from his nipping. Already, he was drawing flashes of excitement along her body from his kisses and the crushing dig of his fingertips into her giving flesh, little snorts and growls escaping from the seal his mouth had made over her skin.  It was pooling and burrowing between her legs, tunneling and swirling to her core until there was nothing left inside her but the beat of _Jaime_. 

When she finally braved moving to the laces of his breeches, finding courage in the backs of her eyelids, shutting out the vision of her flat chest pressed against the contoured muscles and gilded flesh of Jaime’s, he snapped his head back.  “Gods, you almost had me spilling too soon again,” he huffed with a smile.  He was watching her attentively, eyes glinting like silver buried in a forest lake.  “Hands off, wench. You’re not going to win this time.” 

Brienne frowned, but still dropped her fingers, though she accidentally brushed against his hardness, growing from their embrace.  The idea that she could drive Jaime to lose control, and the growing thrill that accompanied it, fled when he reached up to her own waistband, working on loosening it much quicker than before. With a hook of both thumbs, he snagged her smallclothes as well and dropped to his knees to tug both layers to her feet.  Having Jaime stooped before her, eyes level with the curls between her legs, had her stumbling backwards before she thought about still being tangled in the grip of fabric. Thankfully, he caught her by the hips before she fell. 

Grinning and shaking his head, he leaned in to kiss each of her thick thighs, reverent and gentle enough to make her fingers itch to feel his locks between them. He gave her a new kind of oath in the press of his soft lips to the hard, twitching muscles beneath her white, freckled skin and she took it with the lightest touch to his temple. As he continued kissing both legs, avoiding the aching spot that was trembling with each washing pass of Jaime’s warmth breath, he worked at pulling her boots off.  

It was ungainly and precarious, Brienne feeling like a foal with new legs as she stepped away, a beast looming over the knight cowering on his knees. She tried to cover her meager breasts and the coarse, wild patch of unruly and dirty colored hair below her belly, thinking how grotesque they must appear, but Jaime, just as awkwardly and laughing at his scramble, followed her on his knees and then with his hands, when he became in danger of tipping over.  

“Get under the blankets if you don’t want me ogling that powerful body you’re hiding,” he said from the floor.  “Or I’ll pick you up again and haul you to the bed.” 

Ignoring the drop of her stomach at his words, Brienne quickly escaped to the bed and slipped under the covers.  Jaime was a step behind her and it was a simple, natural move to shuffle further along to make room for his body to cup hers, his manhood a push against her back. She wondered if she would ever be used to sleeping alone again, when his breathing and his innocent and dangerous touches alike were a balm to rock her into dreaming. 

He was not interested in sleeping, it seemed, as he shuffled down her side and flipped over her leg to nestle himself between her thighs. The blankets had slipped with him so that Brienne had a view down her unfeminine body to see his handsome, bearded face and unruly curls peeking at her from her hips.  The contrast between her sallow skin sucking in the light as his glistened and flickered with the sun’s rays was more prominent this morning than it had been shut up in the room below, with only a candle for Brienne to hide away from.  Now, though, Jaime shamelessly traced the barest arc of her chest, the slight swell of her belly, the ticking of honed and protruding muscles, with his green, heated gaze, making her wonder what he could possibly find appealing in the form that all other men had mocked. 

“Wh-what are you do-doing?” she stuttered as his head dipped lower. 

Without a word, burning her as he continued to stare into her eyes, he licked his lips and buried them into the nest of hair in front of him, pushing his mouth to her juncture.  Gasping and slamming her palms into the cot, she slid back, away from his touch. 

“I’m kissing you, wench,” he said as he moved to follow her. His voice was deeper than she could ever recall hearing, pulled low by something dense and strong. “You taste like you’ve been enjoying my kisses.” 

“But-but….there?” She still felt slight trembles from the momentary pressure, the spasms of her body and the hammering of her racing blood, beating a melody too loud for her to hear the voice inside telling her that Jaime would not truly enjoy touching her there, that none of the men in the camps had boasted about their heads nestled in any woman’s legs.  “I’ve never-“ 

“Good.” Leaning over her again, he bent his neck, parting his lips just enough to draw the puffy, thrumming flesh guarding her core between them. With a wet release that seemed to echo and pound against Brienne’s ears, Jaime let go to glance at her again. He bared his teeth and hunched his head like a cat about to pounce.  “You’d not be pleased with what I would do to any man besides me that has touched you.” 

Then, he was at her center again and it was just like his kisses to the rest of her, intoxicating, thrilling, consuming.  Brienne could not predict if it would be a searing press of his mouth or the flick of his sharpened tongue or a wave of warm, gasping breath that sent rolling crashes of pleasure and a numbing wave up from her thighs to coat her chest and spread her knees.  When he had used his fingers before, she had felt taught like a bow, but now she was molten steel, shapeless and sluggish and Jaime was pouring her into a mold, ready to douse her in cold water to let her steam and sharpen to a deadly edge. 

She could barely keep back her cries as she fisted the sheet beneath them and dug her heels into the cot.  But her moans and writhing only fueled Jaime on, his mouth more demanding, teeth now brushing the sensitive coils above her entrance, as he snarled and hummed, shooting shivers up to her hair.  When he loosened his bruising grip on her waist and slid his finger inside of her, she was surprised to find her hips yank up, bucking wildly on their own. 

“Jaime…oh,” she sighed as he began a rhythm that her body easily settled into, the chime of bells ringing in her ears, a drumming slowly pounding deep in her belly, and, when he curved the tip of his finger to run along her walls, the stringing of a lute resonating the air. 

Grunting in response, Jaime rose to his knees without breaking away from her and used the new position to suckle at her nub, tugging and teasing, while he fit another finger inside, tightly but easily enough with how he had driven her pleasure to run along her thighs.  The pace only increased until it was commanding every heartbeat and muscle twitch that her body could produce.  She was not a single sensation anymore but a sail snapped rigid with the force of the wind, with the heat of the sun, strained and propelled and full of unseen power. 

Jaime was the breeze saturating her with this new strength and she felt alive, even more than in battle, squeezing her thighs, pierced by Jaime’s beard, the tingle eased away by the softness of the hair at his temple. Her legs were trembling too much to keep them up and as she dropped them back to the bed, she braved a glance down her sweating chest to see Jaime hovered over her core, arm working furiously with the pace of his thrusts while she could feel his tongue dancing madly all along her.  

He was a hungry predator, feasting on her as if she could feed all of his desires. And in that moment of drowning in the feelings that Jaime stirred, not just of her body being lit from within, but of her heart soaring, she thought perhaps she could. She could be good enough, for herself, for him, to keep them together, to be worth the fight between them. 

The moment he looked up, wicked jade eyes impaling her with a stare, the churn of satisfaction turned into a point of light that speared right at her center.  She could not look away from his gaze, knowing he was insisting that she shatter, that she let herself fall where he could watch and catch her, drawing his own pleasure from how he was making her untangle.  And while she was locked by his hounding scrutiny as he growled into her, it was when he released his last hold on her body, winding his hand along the sheets like a snake in the grass, to disentangle her fingers from the blanket so that he could hold her, palms finding home against each other, that she finally let go. 

A pulse of cries escaping her constricting throat, Brienne closed her eyes and shuddered from head to feet, knowing that Jaime’s name slipped like sighs between her moans.  Blinding light arced against her lids as he refused to relent from his kisses and his plunges as she wavered from tearing into pieces and lacing back together. She did not know what parts had belonged to her and which to Jaime, but as she slithered like silk swirling to the ground, she knew that every time Jaime showed her how much he wanted and cared for her, every time they crashed against each other, the stitching would be made more and more of _them_ and _her_ , a _lone_ falling from the tapestry like old petals from a flower. 

“Jaime,” she croaked through a mouth dry from her pants. 

He pulled back, finally giving her reprieve to collect herself. “I do enjoy when I make you forget all other words, but my name,” he hummed from where his head rested on her thigh. Breathing as heavily as she and seemingly just as satisfied, he languidly drew himself up on his hands, leaning on one side and nearly hanging off of the cot.  

Then, just as he was shifting his weight to his hip, he tilted far enough back that he tipped over, grabbing the other edge of the bed to try to save himself and managing to merely pull it with him, upending them both onto the cold tiles with the cot falling on them.  Jamie’s hands shot to catch Brienne, as they both shouted, pulling her over his chest so that she did not slam against the unforgiving floor, though she did take the brunt of the lightweight travel bed. 

Laughing, he righted the pallet again and pushed off the blankets that had tumbled around them.  She found herself smiling as well, as she straddled him, looking at his chest vibrating and his eyes wrinkling, hair fanned out as he shook his head.  “I’ve never had so much trouble bedding a woman before,” he snorted. 

 _I doubt that_ , she thought, though she bit her tongue and tried to rise, instead. He settled his grip on her waist, keeping her close, and lifted up so that he could kiss her cheek. The chasteness shocked her, even more than the tumble from the bed or the peak he had just sent her to. But when she pulled back to look at him, the narrowness of his gaze was not as innocent. 

“I would take you to the nearest sept,” he whispered like it was some worshipful secret amongst the piles of sheets she had sweated and slept in. “Or heart tree. Whatever god or plant you want, Brienne.” 

“I don’t care that you took my maidenhead, Jaime.” She had been passed over and rejected enough, plagued with her father’s desperate frustration, that the dreams of a young maiden taking on the protection of her lord husband had become a hollow nightmare, the evening of the wedding an even greater horror. So, she had cloaked herself, donned the shelter of steel and plating, using her eternal purity as a sigil of its own.  The Maid of Tarth. That was no longer, but she found it did not matter, she did not feel any different besides a little more sore and a bit more whole. 

Clutching her sides, he hefted her up with a grind of teeth and a flash of annoyance in the twitch of muscles in his jaws.  She flung her arms out as he struggled to lift her in the air and toss her back on the cot, fearful for a moment that the fragile thing would collapse on them as he swung himself on top of her.  “You should, you stubborn cow,” he said as he shoved his face before her nose, forcing her to look at him.  “But that’s not why.” 

It was not a rose or a knighting, but it was Jaime.  “I don’t want the gods,” she whispered.  “I want you.” 

“You have me already.” 

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders to kiss him, but while he eagerly gave her his lips, he did not settle between her legs as he had done before. Instead, he slid against the wall and nudged her to her side, her back pressed partly against his, head falling into the crook of his neck.  Looking up at him curiously, she felt his arm on the cot shift beneath her, offering a cushion and wrapping her torso up in his embrace.  His other hand ran fluttering down her chest and stomach, skirting the spot that was starting to tingle and strum with his touches, to grab her upper thigh and tuck it over his hip. 

“I’m yours,” she whispered.  The position left her exposed, but she was at an angle to meet his mouth while his palms had access to most of the front of her body.  She tried not to think about the view he must have of her, legs splayed and chest heaving, washed in sunlight as she shadowed his own body. The kiss was more important, the wet glide of his tongue over her teeth, the deep, noisy inhales that ended in moans as he captured one of her nipples between his fingers and cupped her core with his other hand.  Like this, he was free to roam the expanse of her and by the urgent rutting of his cock between the swells of her backside, he was delighting in the contact. 

In only a few teases and swirls of her nub, Brienne could feel herself responding to his touches again, feeling empty and demanding as she barely pumped her hips. He took his hand away too soon for her liking, only to fit himself between her spread legs, and then he returned to tracing circles above her entrance. 

“It’ll be less painful like this,” he hissed into her ear as he pressed into her. 

“I can handle pain.” She did find she liked more the way his breath was a spray on her ear and his lips sought out to suck and bite the lobe, sending surprising shocks that bolted right to her center, like the bang of a sword on stone traipsing up her arm. 

He sighed and retreated, only to return even deeper.  “I know.  But I won’t be the one to give it to you.  Much.” They both grunted at the force of his next thrust.  “Let me take care of you, for once.” 

Another agonizing withdrawal and then he was a surge and a satisfied puff as he settled into her, as if this was not just the second time, as if they had been joined since meeting.  “Yes, Jaime.” 

It was a frightening thought, to give him not just her body, but the clinging vestiges of a girl hoping for love.  He shook it out of her like a blanket that had been folded away, collecting dust in the summer, only to be wanted and welcomed come winter. She released the tension of her muscles gripping the pieces of her that refused to relinquish the notion that she was only strong when alone.  It eased Jaime’s movements as he increased his pace, causing Brienne to cling to both of his arms as he kneaded her breast and rubbed frantically at the wet bead below.  She could come to crave what only Jaime could give her, the cloak of his body around hers, the joy their joining equally built in both of them, the way the world fell away until it was simply the two.  Or the one, as Brienne had lost all sense of what was her and what was Jaime all over again. 

“I never knew,” he gasped, speeding up as he spoke.  Jaime’s head was tucked into the hollow between her chin and shoulder, his breath curling down her back and rolling over her torso. He groaned.  “I never knew it could be like this.” 

She laughed.  She could not stop the belly of mirth that filled at the thought that _he_ could have felt so inexperienced, compared to her, the Maid of Tarth. 

“Don’t laugh at me, wench,” he said, even while chuckling darkly himself. “You know what I meant.” 

 _Oh, I do_. Even as he kissed from her temple down her back, she could feel the ascending crest of another peak. His words, hot in her ear, his unrelenting fingers plucking lightning from her while the curl of his tongue along her lobe left her shivering, and the push of his manhood saturating her to bursting were fueling her on.  She dug her nails into his flesh, pushing back against him, keeping them linked, while she simultaneously tried to buck up to his hand.  By the stuttering rhythm that he was fighting to maintain and the wild hum and gasps filling her head, Jaime was just as close to his climax. 

The room was floating with the creaks of the straining cot, the wet slap of their bodies and their groans.  That, at least, was how Brienne had imagined a bedding, brutal and loud and ungainly. But now it only sent her into higher spirals, aiding in narrowing the swell of bliss sweeping her up until it was honed into a sharp prick of light, like a small hole in the door, leading outside. 

“Brienne.” 

How she relished the way her name left his lips.  It was a sigh, a shout, a promise.  It was more powerful than a declaration of war or love. It was Jaime, it was the contentment she still could not believe she gave him.  It was the only place either wanted to be. 

“Jaime.” She could only hope to pour everything into that as he could. 

“Now.” He suddenly pressed hard on her nub, making her body dance and recoil, though he would not let up, driving into her with short, deep strokes that had her making an odd sound, like a gull caught in a net.  Perhaps later she would blush at that, but caught in this sputtering slow slide of time, she was only a fine point, the killing blow at the end of the dagger Jaime wielded. 

With an anguished moan, he sunk his teeth into the muscle at her shoulder, trapping her flesh, assuring the skin would turn into shades of sunset, before it would bloom to night and then spring to day again.  It would look like any other bruise on her body. But they would both know. It was the mark of his power and his restraint. 

As he clutched her desperately, whimpering while she swallowed her cries, the pain of his continuous bite beginning to pervade her peak, he held her together as she came apart.  And the moment that she let out her breath, tingles of the rest of the world starting at her toes, Jaime freed her with a roar and shoved his hips away from her. Then, it was she holding him, kissing his cheek and clasping his hands as his body convulsed beside her, his head lolling over her shoulder, chin digging into her chest. 

“Brienne,” he whispered as the tremors continued to wrack him. “Gods, Brienne.” 

They lay there together, Jaime’s sweating form draped loosely over hers, while she still experienced the odd spasm and jolt working its way along her thighs and in her belly.  _What happens now?_  

With a sigh, he rolled off her and Brienne wondered if he would leave as he had planned to do before, with something about their armor. But, he turned her over and pulled her partly on top of him, her head tucked under his chin and her leg thrown over the muscles in his stomach.  He hooked one hand under her knee and the other was a tickle and a drag up and down her back. 

“You have no notion of vomiting, do you?” he asked.  She heard it echo in his chest and bounce her forehead where it rested. 

“No.” Curiously, she ran her fingers through the light curls along his chest. When he rumbled approvingly, she began combing and teasing it, feeling the texture and watching him twitch under her touch. 

“And nowhere to be?” 

“I’m supposed to be recovering.” 

“With the help of me, yes?” 

Brienne snorted.  “Yes, Jaime. Though I don’t know what you plan to do.” 

“Spar with you to keep your lovely muscles honed,” he murmured. “Make sure you are fed properly and not bothered.  Fuck you to help you slumber peacefully.” 

“Argue with me to keep me constantly annoyed.” 

“Clearly,” he sniffed.  “But now it’s time you got some sleep, Brienne.” 

She looked up at him, surprised to find his eyes starting to drift shut even as the rake of his fingernails lulled her.  “Are you going to stay with me?” 

“Aye, wench.  I plan on having a restless nap with your bony elbows and knees jabbing me and your cold feet numbing my legs.” 

“Good.” She placed her temple back over his slowly beating heart. “I intended to spend the day nearly falling off the cot since you take up so much room.” 

“I never thought I’d look forward to sleeping outside,” he mumbled, words slurring as he started to drift off.  “But it would mean we’d have more room to stretch out when we stop for the nights.” 

 _We will continue to spend our evenings together, even on the road._ She sighed.  “I’d never thought to hope, either, Jaime.” But he was already asleep. 


	27. The Way Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has been reading and especially to those that have been commenting. Your words mean everything to me and help me continue to update. We are nearing the end and I am definitely mourning the loss of the connection with you all!
> 
> I also want to thank Coraleeveritas, as always. She really is helping me mold these last chapters to something I am happy with and the poor dear is also having to hear me moan about it all, too! I cannot express how amazing of a feeling it is that in the two years we have been working on this piece together, she has never once snapped at me or been annoyed with my writer moods. Every time, she has gently pulled me out of it and set me off in the right direction. That constant support is something I have never experienced before and it is such a gift to me!
> 
> Also, I have to thank Sandwichesyumyum. She catches everything I have missed in my many rereads and she also leaves the most positive, motivating, smile-inducing notes that I can keep forever and look back on when I'm uncertain. I hope every day to give back to her what she has given to me because the encouragement to keep writing and posting is very special to me.

In the oranges and purples of sunset, Jaime awoke.  The colors were a swirl and a dip in the mess of blankets around him, reaching in from the tall windows and stretching like a yawn along the floor. They sank into Brienne’s exposed arm resting against her side, as she had scooted to the very edge of the cot and curled into herself.  He stared at the freckles melting into darker reds under the light, taking in the comforting rise and fall of her breaths as she slept.  Then, restless though rested, he leaned over the small distance between them and hooked his hand around her waist so that he could drag her flush against him. 

“Jaime,” she grumbled. 

He smiled at that, the ease with which she was aware he was the one bothering her slumber, the simple shuffle as she turned over to face him, scrunching her broken nose against the splashes of light.  “Even when you are asleep, you need your space,” he complained. 

“And yet, still, you won’t let me have it.” Despite her words, she let Jaime wrap her up in his arms, tossing one leg over her wide hips and the other worming between her thighs.  She sighed into his chest as she rested her hands on it and laid her head under his chin again. “I’m not used to someone else besides me.” 

“Me either,” he replied evenly.  _And yet I reached for you even before I was fully awake_.  “Go back to sleep.” 

It was good, he thought, that she had been able to rest for most of the day. No more fevered tossing and pained moaning.  Well, there had been moaning, but it had not been in pain.  

Jaime had to curve his growing cock away from Brienne, who was starting to breathe evenly again, as he basked in the warm glow of the day’s last rays of sun and recalled how the yellow streams of morning had burst across her pale flesh as Brienne had moved with him tucked inside her.  This time he had done it right.  As much as the bliss of feeling her clutching heat, combined with his wench admitting her desires, had tugged at his release, he had managed to show her how only he could make her feel.  Though it was merely a small glimpse into what Brienne had done to him. 

And now she was a barely contained bundle in the curve of his body, her feet and hands sticking out from where she was too big for him to contain, her hair a nest across the pillow and running across his nose. Her elbows were sharp jabs in his stomach, even her hip was a stone against his thigh.  But he held her closer still, eliciting a contented sigh from her, which he sucked in like precious air, memorizing the sound that was for him alone. 

“What have you done to me?” he murmured while he caressed her back with his fingertips, as she had seemed to enjoy that earlier, feeling the explosion of her hair rising along his touch.  “What have I done to myself?” 

When she shifted at his voice, nearly kneeing him between his legs, he decided he should give her the entire cot to continue sleeping, and that he would determine a better position for them later.  But he did take pleasure in the difficulty he had in extracting himself. Brienne would not so easily release her hold on his warmth, making him grin even while he struggled to pull his arm from beneath her heavy body. 

“Gods, wench, I have to remember that you can crush me at night if you’re not careful.  Or all the time, for that matter,” he snorted.  Padding over to their pile of discarded clothing, he pulled on breeches and a tunic with sleeves that slipped past his knuckles and billowed around his shoulders and chest. It smelled of salt and sun, musk and earth.  He kept it on, rather than searching for the one that must be his, though he was grateful for being able to identify his own boots from Brienne’s larger ones. “It’ll be worth some broken bones.” 

One glance at Brienne revealed a bundle of blankets, wide, crooked toes peeking from below and a jut of shoulder as she had pressed herself against the wall, spread out in the space he had left unoccupied, her face enfolded in his pillow. He silently slipped through the door, knowing the faintest sound would wake her, and shut it behind him. 

The fortress was quiet without the bustle of Lannisters and Starks and the hurried burning and cleaning of the last remnants of the ironborn. There was a hush in the growing darkness, enough for him to hear the chirp and croak of insects and toads, the screech of something hungry and hunting, and the soft pop of the thick mires of muck that would suck a man down before he could cry out for help. It was familiar to him now, more than the sight of the tall, peeling trees with fans of leaves or the wide palms of ferns.  In the coming night, before the light of the stars had fought their way through the thick mist from a cooling day, Jaime could almost think himself blind again. 

But he still managed to find a pile of lichen and a flint to light it, his theft wholly ignored by the old man who watched him snatch it from beside him, and he set off towards the edge of the stronghold, grateful he could watch his path.  One step outside, no matter how seemingly firm and sure it was, could mean his death, if he was not accompanied by one of Reed's people.  But Jaime made sure he was alone yet safe. 

Leaning against the Children's Tower, looking out into the dot of brave trees rising from the serpentine travel of rivulets and moss beds and weeds, he breathed in the acrid and living air of the swamp.  When his heart had settled, he squatted down on the last patch of packed earth and lit his collection.  It caught on the first spark, swirling bright green that made him recoil and hiss, more at the flash of shadows and memories in the gleam than in the fire before him. 

But as it settled into a smokeless, bright smolder, Jaime rocked to sit down, back to the stone. 

"You would have enjoyed this place, Tyrion," he murmured, his voice sounding loud and hollow in his ears.  "All the mystery and magic behind it.  I'm sure Reed has stories to tell.  And you'd know better than I what to do with the Stark girls." With a groan, Jaime rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes, sending off flares of light. "I'm sorry. Whatever gods there are can take me, I'm sorry, brother.  I should have taken care of you.  I should have listened. You don't know it but I betrayed you once with a lie and I betrayed you again when I let myself be lied to, and when I thought I knew what Cersei was capable of." Her name was a pool of bile in his mouth and he spat it out like a curse.  "I'll give you your day of retribution, though. And maybe you can forgive me. And maybe you won't." 

Forgiveness was a funny matter and even though Jaime was just talking to the wind, to keep Tyrion from the growing crowd of faces that tried to give him sleepless nights, he hardly expected his apology to mean anything, to the air or to his brother or to the gods.  He said the words anyway, because he was surprised to find he meant them. And not as shocked to find they did not change anything. 

"Jaime." Her voice was pebbles under a sole and she coughed dryly to pick them out. Jaime turned to find her swallowing, knowing she would have preferred to spit.  She was a pale haze against the glow of the moss, shadows and night digging fingers into half of her so she looked gaunt and looming, a giant hovering over him. "What are you doing?" Blue eyes, darkened to a cavern pool, flitted to the pile of moss by his feet. 

"This place may have made me mad after all," he snorted, following her gaze to look into the light. 

"You were talking." 

"Were you spying?" He turned to look at her, watching the hue like that evening's sunset splash across her cheeks. 

"No...you aren't very quiet." 

He smiled and she glanced down at his lips.  "Neither are you." 

"You don't have to tell me then-" 

"I was saying goodbye to Tyrion," he sighed. 

She blinked once and then stepped further into the halo of light. "Oh." Her feet shifted and dug into the earth and stone fragments.  "I should leave you alone." 

"Why? It's not as if Tyrion would know.  If I was a bit madder, I'd introduce you two.  He would have enjoyed you immensely." 

"Yes, I'm quite the freakish entertainment," she snapped back. 

Jaime laughed at her, ignoring the twist of pain throwing her expression into monstrous contortions.  "I'm sure the Lannister dwarf would indeed find you to be an oddity." Her face relaxed and her jaw loosened.  Knowing an apology was about to tumble out of her wide maw, he continued. "It's done, wench. I just thought that Tyrion deserved at least a moment for me to say goodbye." _Here I am waking up beside my woman and he never even had his._  

Brienne simply nodded. 

"Did you do the same, with your brother?" 

"Yes," she quietly replied.  "And no, nothing changed." 

 _I wonder if_ she _was surprised by that._ "You look tired," he commented as he stamped out the moss with his boot. 

"I am." 

"I should have let you rest." _Should have, but never would, with your mouth so eager and your touch so gentle._  

"You left." 

In the darkness it was difficult to discern her features, but Jaime knew what kind of face she was making.  He had known even when blind.  Now, with her looking away from him, he could see her jaw twitch.  "Not far.  Never far." 

She nodded once but the storm of her chin ceased, melting back to cool, placid skin that Jaime wanted to kiss. 

"You look different," he said with a tilt to his head. 

That got her to look at him again.  "What?" she suspiciously demanded. 

"Well, I've heard that one can tell when a lady is no longer a maiden." 

"Just as one knows when a man is being a fool." 

He smiled but continued, lurking closer to her, watching as she fought to stay in her spot.  "You don't look any prettier, mind...thank the Seven.  And you _are_ glowing but I think that may be from the last of the fever." 

With her chin tiled up, she cast her eye down on him.  "You think yourself brave for mocking someone who can knock you on your back?" 

"You're taller, that must be it." 

" _You_ are an old man. No doubt you're beginning to hunch." 

He had to strain to reach the jut of her firm jaw to plant a chaste kiss on it. "You shouldn't insult me, wench. After all the pleasure I've given you." 

"I'll remember this when we're sparring." He wanted to think he saw her lip quirk in amusement but she was swiveling on her heel and lumbering away from him before he could ask. 

"That's it!" he called after her, strolling casually and uncaring if the night heard his loud voice.  "It must just be the man that knows.  You see, I can recall just how your naked body looks when you are out of those rags." Brienne stopped and turned back around, red as a ripe strawberry, and let him catch up.  In reward, he lowered his voice.  "It's quiet distracting to have you stomping around here when I can imagine that trail of freckles on your arse.  And that nice groove in your side for my hand." 

"That's a poorly healed scar from a tumble in the rocks," she distractedly replied as she looked about them.  "Have you seen Tiana?" 

Jaime arched a brow.  "I'm trying to seduce you back to our bed and you are thinking of a bog devil?" 

“Yes.” She looked at him when he exhaled sharply.  “No.  I just…thought of something I need from her.” 

“You know I’m not going to leave you to get it,” he chuckled. “You’ve got my interest piqued now, wench.” 

Huffing, she turned around and resumed trudging away, but she did not protest when he joined her at her side. 

They found the lithe, troublesome girl with pots littered about her, a motley of dented metal of differing sizes, simmering and popping over several fires. In the rise of steam and the haze of light, the young thing looked like some wood witch, the tales of the crannogmen being wielders of magic suddenly seeming very real.  But when she finally noticed them approach, her wide, dark eyes, flickering from innocence to knowing against the flames, they narrowed at seeing Jaime even while she smiled pleasantly at Brienne, and then she was simply the pesky healer once again. 

“You should be resting,” she said as way of greeting.  She frowned at Jaime.  “She should be resting.” 

“I’m feeling much better, thanks to you,” Brienne replied with a small smile. 

“Yes, you say that now, but moving too soon will only undo what I’ve done,” the girl patiently said.  She began moving around some of the pots, making room.  “Sit.  You need to sit.” 

“How about I go back to bed,” Brienne offered.  “I was just…wondering,” her head turned slightly in Jaime’s direction, “if you had…something.” 

Tiana shrugged at that.  “The crannogmen have few possessions, Lady Brienne.” 

“I understand.  It’s an…herb, I was hoping you may have.” 

“Oh,” she brightened at that.  “Those I’m rich in.  Just tell me what you need. Something for your cough? Or to boost back your appetite? Or perhaps for sleep? Or muscles aches? Or-” 

“No,” Brienne quickly interrupted.  She sighed, twitching her chin again so she could steal another glimpse at Jaime. He merely quirked a brow at her, his interest and amusement growing at her hesitance.  _What could she want?_ “What I need is for…well, it’s called…” She looked away, staring at her boots instead of either of them.  “It’s moon tea.” 

 _Fool. Fool.  Still a blind fool._ Jaime berated himself as Tiana’s eyes grew larger and Brienne hunched her back folding her arms to hug herself as if the air was not heavy and humid, but frigid instead.  He should have known.  He was supposed to be taking care of her and, while it had been without thought that he pulled away from her at his peak, he was not used to having to consider that threat. Cersei had always been occupied with such matters, though there were the times that she had not been. Regardless, he had never considered he was ever the one to determine what Cersei should or needed to do. 

But Brienne was different.  She knew just as little as Jaime did.  And while he refused to let his mind traipse down the path of the wench round with his cub, he was aware that in the middle of war, they could not risk a child, let alone another illegitimate one from the Kingslayer.  That understanding made it easier for Jaime to stop himself wondering if it was something he or Brienne would have ever wanted. 

“Noble women,” Tiana spat.  “The swamp has something like that vile _moon tea_ , what a name.” Brienne let out a breath, drawing the girl’s gaze to appraise her.  “I’m hoping it’s not for Lady Sansa, but the way that Lannister man has been eyeing Lady Dacey, I imagine you are going to need some.” 

Jaime laughed.  He could not contain it, not even when Brienne’s red splotched face whipped to him while he braced himself on his knees.  Of course this girl, younger than his wench, probably, and prettier even with the grime on her face and the wild knots in her hair, could not see that the fearsome warrior she healed would be lying with the Kingslayer. 

“I can bring you something on the morrow,” Tiana told Brienne, though she was preoccupied with staring disapprovingly at Jaime. “Enough to last, since I doubt anyone will be seeing a friendly castle in a while.  Though, you chew it, not drink it.  Tastes just as bad.” She looked down to stir one of her pots, muttering, “or so I’m told.” 

“Thank you, Tiana,” Brienne said.  “And…I trust you will keep my request between us?” 

The girl lifted a shoulder dismissively as she turned the spoon. “Of course, not that anyone will care, anyway.” 

Brienne slowly nodded, moving questioningly to stare at Jaime, who just stepped aside, indicating they would leave.  She did so sluggishly, most likely wondering at her own boldness to ask for such an item. 

“I could have done that, Brienne,” he murmured to her as she passed. 

“No,” she replied.  “It should not be something to be ashamed of.” 

 _And yet, that is all you have been taught._   “You feel it, though.” 

Stopping before the entrance to the tower, she rounded on him, making him have to look up to stare into the flare in her eyes, sparking in the darkness. “I did not ask for just enough for this last time.” 

He grinned, though that only seemed to make her angrier.  “Presumptuous wench, thinking that you could lure me back to your bed.” 

“I could just give it to Lady Dacey,” she flatly responded. 

“You would never be so cruel.” Jaime reached out to drag two fingers along the fleshy side of her hand, feeling the rough skin and the twitch of her palm. She had a crushing grip, he knew, and yet he had also experienced the tenderness with which she could hold him. Smiling at the thought, he gripped her more firmly. 

With a responding squeeze, their hands fell apart and Brienne walked up the steps of the tower.  Watching the straight and heavy way she plodded up, hardly a sway of a nonexistent hip, Jaime was pulled to follow her.  He had not needed to sleep the day away as Brienne had and he was hardly tired now, but still he did not turn around and descend.  So intent was he, watching the arch and shift of her back that he easily noticed the slight stutter and pause of her movements and the rise of her arm as she reached out to the stone to steady herself. 

“Brienne?” He swallowed up the stairs separating them with one large step and looked at her. 

She was covered in a wet sheen of fresh sweat, mouth parted as she tried to even and deepen her breaths.  “What if I am forever plagued with this?” she said as she coughed. 

“The girl says you should recover as long as you listen to her,” he replied. When she seemed unconvinced, he wrapped his fingers around her elbow and tugged her up the rest of the steps. “Come on.” 

“I could be a liability on the battlefield.” 

Jaime shook his head. “Even sick and weakened, you are still stronger than any man I have ever fought.” 

“Jaime.” Suddenly the arm in his hand halted and he could do nothing to pull it along again.  He sighed, turning around to find her steps below him and for once, she had to look up to meet his gaze. Without armor and the height, she looked young.  So young. And frightened. “I’m a danger if I cannot fight. Who would want me in this state?” 

“Is that what you thought of me when I was blind?” he growled, challenging her to voice what had been in his own head, what he had feared was in her own. 

“What? No,” she blinked, blue guileless gems winking in and out at him. “No.  You were…you are…always you.” 

“And you will always be you,” he smiled, enjoying how it felt to bend forward to have to kiss her, the way her head happily tilted up to press their mouths together.  “You will always be mine.” 

She blushed at that, leaving him to marvel that she still could, that she always would.  And then she was moving past him as she continued climbing. 

“Wench,” he called after her.  “Being me is a good thing, yes?” 

“Yes.” 

It certainly felt like a good thing over the following days. Brienne did indeed rest through most of it and the wicked frogeater tossed him out of her room for the entire time that the sun was up.  But he was content with the way he returned, Brienne’s strong arms reaching out for him, and he would let her continue to sleep while he tossed and shifted, trying to find some way to hold her close and bundled against him without having to rise to bruises on his chest and calves. 

Eventually, she awakened with him one morning, a rarity lately, but one he had grown fond of in their travels.  She rubbed her eyes once and was already sitting up from where she had pillowed her head on his chest before Jaime had even finished his yawn.  _I must be getting old if she’s already alert and I’m still trying to find my cock_. 

“Feeling a bit more like yourself, wench?” he mumbled sleepily. 

“I do,” she replied, looking over her wide shoulder at him.  In the slowly peeking morning light, the sun hardly being troubled to crawl over the horizon, he watched the bursts of freckles on her pale skin.  They galloped over her flesh in dark, round spots to feathered sprigs that lightened to white wisps. They tasted differently, he knew, and each cluster elicited a sundry of sounds from her, ones that no man would ever think this cow of a girl would ever emit.  And yet she gave them up freely to Jaime.  _Ah, there’s my cock_. 

“Perhaps you should give yourself one more day in bed with me, hmmm?” he purred, rising up on an elbow to sweetly kiss the jut of her shoulder, watching her through a lidded gaze as he opened his mouth to rake his teeth along her flesh. 

She shivered and closed her eyes, as if savoring a treat. 

Kissing away the scrape of his mouth and beard, Jaime pulled back to lie on the thin pillow and hard cot.  His retreat caused Brienne to turn to him, following like a tug of smoke he had walked through.  She leaned on her side, watching as he placed his arms behind his head, feeling the caress of her stare as she watched how the veins laced over his muscles shifted with the movement. 

It was an invitation to touch, a promise not to interrupt, and Brienne hesitantly placed her fingertips at the edge of the blanket.  He had felt her hands on him these past days, exploring him tentatively when he feigned sleep, both knowing he was letting her rove freely. But when the heat of her palms had driven him mad enough to open his eyes or he tried to guide her, she was a well of water sliding through his cupped hands. 

Now, though, the warmth of her blush was washing his legs as it flamed from her wide brow and traversed down her body.  She was in a loose tunic that slipped off a shoulder, but revealed little else, and light breeches.  Though Jaime refused to wear anything over his torso while he slept, he wore breeches as well, without her asking.  He supposed they should get used to holding each other through what little rest they could grab, clothed and hungry for skin.  But he knew it was the wench still ducking back into her shell of propriety and he had not the urge to prod her out, not when she was starting to poke out her head on her own. 

This was new, being able to watch her follow the path of her fingers, boldly pulling back the sheets so that she had access to his naked chest. She seemed to be most curious about his hair, the soft curls between his nipples and the swirl of darker, courser ones dipping into his waistband.  Her touch was light at first, a tickle and scratch of her nails that had his stomach trembling and his breath lodging in his throat.  But as she continued, her own chest rising all the more quickly, her cheeks turning from a pink tinge to an angry swell of bright red, she pressed more firmly.  Biting her lip, as if in restraint, she edged closer to him. 

But, when she glanced up to find him looking at her, she paused. He could only imagine how he must have appeared to her, near panting and stretched out before her, cock tenting ridiculously beneath the blanket.  An old man with eyes glazed over by his lust and love of her, prone before a girl who could kill easier than she could kiss.  And all his. 

"Don't stop." He knew he should be gentle with her but he demanded, instead. Taking one of his hands from the pillow he had nearly torn in two to keep them off her, he held her wrist and moved it around his belly, proud that at least he had not clamped it right over his angry cock.  "I like your hands on me." 

To keep her from doubting, he lifted his head to carefully suck her lower lip into his mouth. She gripped his hip and inhaled at that show of wanton affection, letting out the puff of air as he brushed his beard against her jaw like she enjoyed and nipped the trail of freckles to her ear. He recalled how she had fluttered and tightened when he had played with the lobe with his teeth, and he made to make her writhe now. 

"They're large, your hands, bigger than most mens'," he hissed. 

"Jaime, that's not-" 

"And rough, too."  He took her wrist again and guided it up to his chest.  When he released her, she brushed it over his shoulder and he sighed.  "I can feel where you grip the sword hilt too hard, where you rub it, out of habit, against your palm.  I can feel the scars along your fingers.  Even with my eyes closed, I know it's you touching me.  I like that." 

She moaned, leaning even closer as she ran her palm down his side, leaving a trial of spluttering flames.  "Jaime. I-" she took a steadying breath and suddenly her hand was on his leg, just the linen of his breeches separating them.  "I make you feel good?" 

“Wench,” he strained through gritted teeth.  “If you have to ask, I’m doing something wrong.” 

Her fingers hitched towards the inside of his thigh.  She was not watching their path, though, but rather studying his face, shyly gazing at him as he tightened his jaw so he could hear his bones protest.  And then she dipped and her palm, the coursing heat encased in her cupped hand, was over his covered manhood, enclosing it.  Undeterred by the shock of his head falling back and his hips arching up to make better contact with her touch, she pressed herself up against the length of him. 

“Brienne.” 

And then she was stroking down him, squirming even closer until she was flush to his side and he could fling out his other arm and hold on to her, anchored to her strength, her stubbornness, her innocence that he knew now, even with him trembling beneath her like pudding, would remain no matter how many times they took each other.  He wanted to roll her over, to watch and feel her wrap around him, only able to cling to him as he claimed her hard enough to make her forget that she had ever thought herself unworthy of any man.  But he could not deny her anything as he yielded to this softer agony. 

“Jaime, can I-“ 

A knock on the door interrupted her and he did not know whether to curse or thank whoever was on the other side, to stop the delicious torture that was his wench learning all the ways to make him slowly flay apart, like the rind of an orange clinging to the peel.  Brienne immediately recoiled, rolling off the cot and heading to the door before Jaime could even catch his breath and throw the blanket over his twitching hardness. 

She padded over to the door, glancing at Jaime, who remained on the bed, and opened it slightly, using her large frame to block the small crannogman on the other side from seeing in.  "Yes?" 

"I am to give my deepest apologies from Lord Reed for disturbing you, Lady Brienne," came a soft, male voice.  "But he has news and wishes for you and Ser Jaime to meet him in the Children's Tower." 

"I will tell Ser Jaime and will be there soon." She closed the door and turned to him, but he was already hauling himself up. 

"Consider Ser Jaime notified," he grumbled as he reached for a tunic. He considered belting his sword as well, the air having suddenly grown tense.  Reed had left him and Brienne alone before today, besides inquiries about her health, and her demeanor, which were aimed at Jaime when he was without her.  And Jaime, in return, had not bothered to ask of any news the lord of Greywater Watch had gathered about the world outside of Moat Cailin.  He knew it would come anyway. 

But neither he nor Brienne took their blades and they hurried down the winding stairs and across the bustling courtyard to the gaping maw that was now the Children's Tower.  Brienne had not stepped foot in this one before and, while Jaime knew to expect the odd hush that dampened the sounds of the activity outside and heightened the cracking and shifting within, he saw Brienne shiver and look up at the open sky above, blinking away dust and confusion. 

Reed was sitting in a simple, folded traveling chair and, as Jaime and Brienne entered, the three crannogmen that had been facing him in other seats rose and left.  Motioning to the vacated spots, Reed sat back with a sigh.  The two took the offered places, though Brienne looked about ready to break through the fragile thing that was held together with reeds and vines, made for a small, light swamp creature and not the bulky wench. 

"My scouts have informed me that the Bolton and Frey armies from the Twins are coming to the Neck.  This fortress is the only thing keeping them from entering the North." 

Brienne opened her mouth and then closed it again.  Jaime wanted to reach out and take her hand but the only comfort either would find would be in closing their fingers around a sword. 

So, he pushed aside anything but the very worrisome matter before them. "How many?" Jaime asked. It felt like limitless traitors had surrounded them at the Twins, a sea of pink and gray, swirling in a storm to close them in.  And now they were there again, it seemed. 

"Thousands." 

Jaime shook his head.  If Tyrion were there, he could spout out how many lords and armies had tried and failed to surpass Moat Cailin from the south.  But all Jaime could do was hope he was right in his guess.  "Only a small number can span the path up here. We can take down a few at a time." 

Reed nodded but he looked dejected.  Tired. Old.  "I have also received a report of a band coming from the north. They carry the sigil of House Bolton." 

Brienne hung her head, but Jaime rose and paced the grimy floor, keeping his feet moving with his thoughts.  The fortress, he did know, was not designed to defend itself from the north. The First Men had been too trusting of their own.  And now the real concern was how to fight against an army from both sides. "How many to the north?" 

"Enough." 

 _No_. They would not die here. He would rather it be anyone besides a Frey or Bolton that ran him through.  They had escaped them once, after all.  "An army like that can't just be all Bolton men.  You said that houses in the North had allied themselves with other parties." 

Reed nodded warily.  "We believe the Hornwoods, Dustins, Ryswells, Cerwyns, and Umbers are amongst the army." 

Stark men.  Once strongly devoted, and now potentially angry, Stark men.  He continued carving a circuit behind Brienne.  "And how many would still be faithful to the Starks?" 

"All those houses must have lost many at the Twins, but the Hornwoods and Cerwyns were fiercely loyal," Brienne said and then shook her head. "How could all those people fight alongside a traitor?" 

"To survive," Jaime replied.  He stopped and looked at Reed.  The man had endangered his people, safe and secure in their swamps, because a Stark had again called on him.  "But that could change if they knew the Starks were not all gone." 

The crannogman smiled and he suddenly looked younger.  "You're suggesting infiltrating the northern Bolton camp." 

"Raise the banners," Jaime nodded.  It sounded just as plausible out loud as it did in his head. "Let them see who holds Moat Cailin. I'm sure your crannogmen could slip in and find the knights that will follow the direwolf again.” He paused, thinking.  “Poison the rest. Tear apart the army from the inside." 

"The southern forces have not yet arrived.  If we could turn enough men and cause enough chaos for the northern party to not be a threat, we could hold Moat Cailin and give Lady Sansa time." 

"It's our only good option now," Brienne agreed, turning to Jaime and smiling hopefully.  

 _Ah, wench. Every great commander thinks he has an infallible plan but no such thing can live in this world. We are depending upon the duty of houses already fearful of their fall, willing to forgive treachery in order to survive.  They could just as easily slit our throats to show their loyalty to their new masters._  

"I will call in Greywater Watch and dispatch men to the northern camp by nightfall, for the first wave," Reed said.  “We should focus on the Umbers, Cerwyns, and Hornwoods first.” 

“Ser Jaime and I will go with you.” Brienne stood. 

“No, my lady,” Reed replied.  “The Kingslayer-“ 

“He is a Stark man now, just as those other men _used_ to be,” Brienne interjected, her shoulders tense and arms rising to cross over her chest.  Jaime was glad she could not see his grin, though it made Reed sigh. 

“Fine, then.” 

Dusk came quickly enough and greeted Jaime as he slid through the thin, tall trees clinging to the vestiges of the swamp, armorless with sword strapped to his back to keep him silent and quick, dagger in his hand, at the ready. Brienne followed, though every crash and crack that she made sounded like thunder in his ears. If it were not for the patient bobbing form of the crannogman leading them, Jaime would not have known they were surrounded by dozens more.  The forest itself seemed to have quieted with the passing of the frog eaters. 

But the camp that they were stalking towards was bursting with clanks and chatter and horses, lit up against a night that was void of even the usual handful of stars.  Whenever Jaime looked away from the fires, it seemed that darkness was a thick cloak around him and he would lose sight of their guide.  So, he avoided peering at their target, intent on keeping track of the back of the man that would keep them in the cover. 

As they neared the rear of the pile of tents sitting upon a high, dry hill, Bolton banners thick amongst the sparse flashes of other northern houses, Jaime spotted some crannogmen silently dragging away the bodies of guards, thin quills jutting from their necks. 

Brienne silently tapped on his shoulder and pointed to a cluster of flags with a giant in broken shackles against a field of red.  "Umber," she whispered. 

"From their sigil, I would think they loved a creature like you, wench," Jaime dared to reply as quietly as he could. 

She scowled at him and mimicked the bog devil when he moved away from the trees and slithered through the tall grasses on his belly, pulled along on elbows and knees.  Jaime followed, watching the shift and glide of Brienne's muscles as she edged towards the closest tent. 

When they finally could use the tall drapes of canvas as protection, they rose only enough to bend over, rushing between the temporary dwellings, pausing to slit the gullet of any man unfortunate enough to wear the Bolton sigil on his breast.  Jaime occasionally caught the flit of a deep shadow as the wave of crannogmen slipped into the camp, but he was more focused on the slight tremble of Brienne's hand as she slid her wet blade across another throat.

It was only a handful of heartbeats before a crannogman motioned them towards a tent. Quickly, they stole inside, finding Reed standing before an old, gaunt and bearded man still wrapped up in his furs and staring as if the Stranger had come to take him. When Brienne and Jaime entered, he turned pale enough to faint. 

"Hother," Reed greeted quietly. 

"What is this madness?" the man blustered. 

"I'd advise you not raise your voice any higher,” Reed pointedly whispered. “You are allied with an enemy of the Starks and, should you cause alarm, your men are surrounded and I’ll not hesitate to kill every one of them." 

"There are no more Starks," Hother snapped, though he was eyeing Brienne warily.  "And you have the Kingslayer with you, if you wish to speak of enemies." 

"Ser Jaime rescued Lady Sansa from King's Landing, otherwise she would have been married to his brother, and most likely with her head on a spike alongside her new husband's," Reed replied evenly.  Jaime thought he flinched, but no one turned to him. "And he found Lady Arya at the entrance to the Twins, about to enter.  I'm sure you could imagine her fate, should she have succeeded." 

Hother frowned.  "I had heard of the Kingslayer taking Lady Sansa but I had assumed he’d run off with a pretty maiden for his own desires." 

"Wrong maiden," Jaime snarled, moving closer to Brienne. 

It did not go unnoticed by the Umber.  "And I'd also heard of a woman becoming the shield of Lady Catelyn but..." 

"All true, Hother," Reed responded.  "And if you doubt them, then listen to me. There are still Starks, I have seen them and I am commanded by them.  They mean to take back what is theirs and destroy all who fight against them, former ally or no.  The Boltons will be destroyed. And any who side with them." 

"They have my nephew, Howland," Hother beseeched. "What was I to do? Mors is with Stannis and if I did not offer the haggard, gray men that he left for me, I fear for the Great Jon." 

"And what would he think, if he knew his life could have saved Lady Sansa's and returned the North to the rightful ruler?" Howled leaned closer and barked. 

"What can I offer that is worth anything?" 

"Give us your men and help us convince the others to turn against the Boltons." 

Hother slouched his shoulders and shook his head.  "Ramsay is insane but not a fool.  He knows we mean to betray him as soon as we can. He let me come to Moat Cailin because he laughs at me and my army.  But he made the other lords and ladies remain in Barrowtown while he controls their troops." 

Reed straightened and looked to Jaime and Brienne.  "Barrowtown is exposed and outside the Neck." 

"Give us a guide and some men and we'll go," Brienne said. 

"No," Jaime interjected.  "This is where the battle is.  We need every man and woman here to fight." 

"What we need is time," Hother replied.  "Howland and I can try to convince the commanders here that their lords would wish to follow a Stark.  But the power of the nobles is imperative." 

Jaime gritted his teeth.  He was not a negotiator or a politician.  He was a sword.  "Send any man with a letter and they can convince the northerners.  Brienne and I are worth more fighting." 

"Any man may not make it to Barrowtown, Jaime," Brienne quickly whispered. "I'd rest easier knowing that we saw that letter to the other bannermen safely." 

"And would you sleep so soundly knowing how many are dying here?" 

"This is not running away." They were low and hardly discernible words to Jaime, even though Brienne had stepped within his space for him to hear. When had the wench come to read him so easily? "This is building an army for the Starks." 

He was not quite convinced they were not running away.  But if it meant keeping Brienne alive just a little longer, he could carry that thought comfortably.  "Fine.  We'll go to Barrowtown." 

"Then we go to war," Hother puffed out his frail chest and nodded. 

They left the tent as Umber finally climbed out of his furs to don his mail and rouse his men.  As they slunk back into the night, Jaime could only just make out the black swirls of crannogmen melting into the swamps.  He thought he saw flashes of red, blood glinting from their spears and knives, and he wondered how many Boltons would wake with the impending commotion as the guards counted their numbers and brothers turned to find their companions soaking the earth. It would still not be enough. _It may never be enough._ And it would only be a short time before Ramsay wondered about the loyalty of his bannermen.  Hopefully Hother would have gathered enough to escape or kill more Boltons before then. Jaime guessed by midday it would be over on this side of the fortress, one way or another.  And he and Brienne would be well gone by then. 

When they reached the safety of the trees, Brienne paused and turned to him, blue eyes flashing in the night like a lion prowling in the grass. She blinked above him and stepped closer until he could smell her sweat and hear her heavy breathing working through her broken nose.  "We go to war, Jaime." She sounded young.  So young.  But there was no fear in her voice. 

"Yes, Brienne." He fumbled and found her waist, pulling her against him and taking comfort in the solid wall of her chest and her warm palms gripping his shoulders.  Even in the darkness, he saw her gaze soften and her head tip down to him, giving up what only he was allowed to have.  "We go to war." Folding his arms around her back and holding her fiercely, he pressed his lips to hers, delving his tongue into her mouth without pausing.  They were a swirl and a spar, a nip and a parry, and she let him take her weight as she dug her thick fingers through his hair.  When he pulled away, her flush was his own sunset and soft words were once again clinging to his tongue.   Instead, he whispered, "We go.  _Together_."


	28. The Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Banner by [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! I am so sorry it’s so late, but it is longer than usual. I have lots of thank you’s to give out and I actually had to cut them up to the beginning and ending notes to fit them. Please read them all because this fandom is the absolute best. THANK YOU!
> 
> First, I would like to thank everyone who has been reading and especially those that have taken the time to comment. Some of you have been with me since the beginning and that connection and that dedication has not been unnoticed and it means the world to me. I want to reply to each of you individually and to try to express how much every word has been the fuel to drive me to keep writing. Comments truly are a force for writers, at least for me. I am a big fanfiction reader and I know how difficult it can be to leave a comment. I just want each of you to know that every single one of those that I have received has been loved and cherished and it has really made a difference in finishing this story. I would encourage all of you to give writers your support and I hope you all know that no matter the length or language, it makes a huge impact. I feel like I have given a piece of myself through this story and I am truly grateful that people have given me a piece of themselves back, through their reviews. What I will mourn the most now that this story is finished is to have cut the connection I have had especially with people that have continuously left comments for me. You all have special places in my heart.
> 
> There is no doubt in my mind that this story would never have been completed, nor would it have been a work that I was proud of, had it not been for Coraleeveritas. For almost two years, she has endured outlines and snippets and chapters (and the same chapters again) almost every day. Every day! And she has worked tirelessly, giving me her talented and expert opinion, editing, re-editing, and providing plot ideas. I cannot convey how much she has put into this story. But she is not just my amazing beta. She is one of my dear friends, a beautiful person who has been there for me for many challenges, who makes me smile, and who I care about deeply. It was been a gift and a joy being able to talk to her about everything in life, including our projects. I can never thank you enough, Coral, but I look forward to many more years of being friends.
> 
> Sandwichesyumyum fell into her role in this story because I was lucky enough to be allowed to beta her wonderful works. And I wanted desperately to show her that I was also a writer, since, at this time, this story had not been posted. And this brilliant, funny, loving woman has given me nothing but encouragement, helping me grow and giving me confidence to continue. And, once again, I cannot believe that I have found another kindred spirit. It has surpassed just our mutual love of this ship into a wonderful friendship that will always be in my heart. Sandwichesyumyum is one of my bright spots in my life, someone that grounds me in the important matters and also frees me with her lightness and her fun. I am forever grateful for the time you have taken, Sandwiches, and for your words on this story.

It was beyond cold, a freeze that bit into Brienne’s bones like it could burn them through, searing beneath every tattered layer of fur that she was bundled under.  She had thought herself prepared for the snow and the ice, but this was a beast new and constant to her, a sign of the North as clear and frightening as the Stark sigil.  Amidst the swirl of white and blue, sky too vibrant and crisp to stare at for long, winking like a polished glass between the piles of frigid clouds, was a beauty that drew Brienne from the bowels of Last Hearth to gaze out at the frozen forest and glossy lake. 

More than that, though, she was trying to escape the swell of people that were filling the cracks in the massive logs that made up the great hall of the Umber fortress.  Not only were there knights and nobles from houses that had rallied their meager offerings to the Starks, but the surge of survivors and refugees had shocked Brienne.  Most were trying to find a safe haven from the masses of ironborn and Boltons and Baratheons that had converged on the few habitable plots of land so far above the Neck, called by the whispers and hope of a wolf come home.  

But then, Jon Snow had arrived. Not only had he come on the summons sent to the Wall, he had brought with him a band of wildlings, savages that had survived beyond, unorganized and unbent.  And he was accompanied by Stannis’s red priestess.  The sight of her had been enough to steal the breath from Brienne, sending her mind into a chasm she had closed up, open raw and weeping, whining and pulsating until her vision blurred and she was lost in the pain of the past and a thirst for justice.  But the news Jon Snow had carried with him was even more startling and under the unnatural heat of a green gaze, as Jaime followed her every movement, she recalled the thrumming words of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.   _The Others_ , he had boomed in his dark voice.  Nightmares and tales were nothing compared to the horror of _knowing_ that there was a threat coming to snatch the dead and consume all that fought to live.  Dragonglass and fire were all that could stop them.  

 _They are real_.  

Only the kinslayer Stannis Baratheon had a force large enough that could stop them, at least, according to the witch. As well as allying tentatively with the black brothers, he was plowing through the north, taking Deepwood Motte and moving to Winterfell, where the last vestiges of Ramsay Snow’s army still hid. 

“He will give you back your lands,” Lord Snow had solemnly told Lady Sansa, hardly a glimmer of familial recognition cracking his stoic, pale face beneath his dark features.  “But not without a price.” 

“I will swear to him.  And give any men that wish to fight under our banner to his noble cause against these monsters,” his sister desperately replied. 

“If only it were that easy of a payment,” he had sighed and turned away. 

Brienne could not have imagined this is how the journey north would have ended, the desire to win back the Stark’s former home a small matter now.  The letter that Lord Reed and Lord Umber had written, as well as the presence of the Maid of Tarth and the Kingslayer, had been enough to convince the lords and ladies at Barrowtown that perhaps the Boltons were not the strongest force anymore. When news arrived of dissent in Ramsay’s ranks, and with Roose trapped on the other side of the Neck, held back by an army in Moat Cailin, they were willing to travel to White Harbor for proof of Brienne and Jaime’s claims. 

Thankfully, Lord Manderly had been welcoming of the Starks, sending them with a retinue up the White Knife.  And with Hothor Umber’s approval, they had traveled to Last Hearth, accompanied with the swearing of the Cerwyns, Hornwoods, Dustins, Tallharts, and Lockes. Though minor houses, along with the Ryswells and Karstarks, remained with the Boltons and Freys.  

Now, it was all just names and actions that seemed long ago. Yet Brienne could not forget the parties of deserters and foes and desperate men that had come at them as they crawled further north.  Jaime had nearly bled out from an arrow through his side, all the while bemoaning the cowardice of archers, and she had succumbed to the cold, part of her ears turning black until he insisted on crafting her a better hood and holding her within his own body heat at seemingly every moment, mindless of anyone watching. 

She did not deny him, could not, as she had nightmares of Jaime turning pale and cold as snow, the heat from his blood coating her hands, burning through her skin.  Many days she had awoken with the words at the edge of her tongue, telling him that they would head back south, that she would marry him, that they would hide in each other’s arms, come what may.  But, they never escaped her mouth and she swallowed them down, miserable and hating herself as she watched him regain strength as slowly as his beard grew and her heart split. 

During those days wrapped in chill and Jaime, she had lost hope in finding the rest of their party alive and waiting for them. If they could barely manage to crawl their way north, she feared what had come of the party with two young maidens. And though they were all indeed reunited again, she could not help but steal glances at the scar running down Ser Addam’s cheek, the hobble on Clegane as he learned to walk without all of his toes, and how Dacey had to force her fingers of her left hand to close in to a fist. The girls were whole and safe, yet even they carried a dark look, a stare that bore through their surroundings and snatched them back to some bleak memory. 

And what had it been all for? To give back the Starks a burnt and empty stronghold, only for it to be under peril of something much more sinister than a traitor? To fight each other, just to die together? They had risked too much, nearly destroying themselves, but they had merely weakened their forces in time for the true war. 

Now, she waited for Jaime to return from a ranging mission, a scheduled circuit of the area around Last Hearth to ensure that no enemies, living or dead, were closing in.  It seemed fruitless, but it was something to do while Stannis’s men, the Night’s Watch, and the houses of the North deliberated behind closed doors and the soldiers sat idle.  However, the longer she and Jaime remained apart, the more her stomach rolled and chest tightened, refusing food and sleeping little.  

When exhaustion did take her, her dreams were as muddled and contradictory as the frigid tendrils of winter and the warm arms of Jaime. Some nights she found herself in only a shift, walking a white beach with sand too soft to be Tarth, holding the hand of a boy who could have been her lost brother or, in his youth, the man she loved.    But other evenings pulled her towards a field of white frost, forms striding through wind and snow, eyes too blue to be alive.  She feared looking at the faces, but the terror of watching them stalk by was even greater. She was not important enough for their death.  They would take all she held dear and leave her alone and cold in this new world.  Every time she woke, she thought that her hands were once again bathed in Jaime’s blood as she had pressed them desperately to the hole in his side. 

And so, she stood, searching for Jaime, uncaring of how he could even find amusement, here in a land of ruin and ice, in the open regard with which she bathed under his emerald stare when he was near. At the end of things, it mattered little for propriety.  She was not so innocent anymore to miss how Lord Snow frowned and weighed his sisters, how the red witch eyed them hungrily.  They would be bargaining tools to solidify an alliance, maidenheads priced like gold. But Brienne was free, for now. And she would let no man be at her side beside Jaime Lannister. 

After one particular night, when he had moved within her in the small room he had found for them, she knew that it was no game that he played with her.  In the dark, his eyes were a flare of wildfire and his body a flash of gold as he pressed himself on top of her.  She could feel their thighs sliding together, aided by the sweat built from the heat between them, their nipples brushing, and his breath coming out in gasps hitting her nose and breaking apart to tumble down her cheeks.  His silence worried her, his constant staring making her seem exposed, though they could hardly see each other.  One hand gripped her instead of the sheets, using her hip or shoulder or leg to steady himself so that the other could caress and stroke whatever piece of her flesh he could find.  When he was not watching her every reaction, he was leaning in for kisses, peppering her temple and eyes and neck, dipping his tongue into her mouth.  

Even while she rocked with him, tilting up and trying to command him to thrust faster, she had never felt more vulnerable. After her peak had crept up and then burst like the final thaw over a waterfall, and she had cried out his name too loudly, the first sound in the long time with which Jaime had drawn them out, she had also never felt more bereft when he shuddered and groaned, teeth at her throat, as he spilled on her belly.  But, as had been their way, even while traveling through the north, Jaime was soon tucking her into the crevices of his body, keeping her warm. And full.  

The man could be childish and frustrating at times, but his smiles in the night were welcome blooms of summer in her chest. And, as she scanned the horizon, the sight of his hulking form slinking through the cold, like a flying shadow skating over the landscape, the breath that had been heating in her mouth escaped in a puff of white.  While more exhales churned the air before her, she watched as Jaime and the rest of his party entered the stronghold.  He broke off from the others as soon as he caught her standing at the landing above him, his long strides swallowing the distance between them. 

"Wench," he hailed as he launched up the final steps.  Though his nose was red and his lips pale, he still grinned at seeing her.  She would keep to herself how she had prayed to all the gods, the Seven and the old, just to have him look at her like that again. "You shouldn't let me become accustomed to finding you waiting for me." 

"I wasn't waiting," she lied, frowning as he winced slightly and she moved to meet him near the top of the stairs. "I needed some quiet." 

"The quiet around here is like to kill you," Jaime muttered. 

"Did you find anything?" 

"Just frozen corpses," he replied. "Well...burned corpses now. Wasn't Tallhart missing some men?" 

She sighed. "I haven't managed to keep track of them all." 

"No one can. Has Lord Snow come to any decisions?" 

Jaime did not even bother to watch her shake her head. They had delivered Robb Stark's letter to his bastard brother, as asked, and the young man had read it with furrowed brow.  But he had not spoken of any resolution to renounce the black and take his seat at Winterfell. It was whispered that as soon as he removed his cloak, he would lose his head.  No one was allowed to leave the Night's Watch.  Yet, to be called upon by his lost family, to be given the name he must have coveted from his siblings all of his life, to be _home_ , must be a maddening temptation, one that Jon Snow could never have envisioned would be his. 

"Better to live and take revenge than live out the last of your family while you watch them fight," Jaime had said. 

"If Jon Snow wanted to help, he would be of more use lending the Night's Watch to his sister and Winterfell," Brienne had retorted. 

"It's the same death sentence. Crow's eyes only look to the north. The wars of Westeros matter little to them." 

Perhaps the boy was simply soaking in the wash of what could be, dipping his thoughts into a pool once forbidden for a bastard and a black brother.  And then he would dry himself off and turn his back to it all, walking the earth to never swim in the freeing tide of belonging again.  It seemed the Northern houses were not forcing his decision, most looking with pitying gazes as he passed in the halls.  But the red witch was a burn of indignation, hot enough to suck up that glade of dreams and scorch it from ever being. 

"You had best warm yourself by the fire," Brienne scolded, noting the slight tremor to Jaime's jaw as he hunched over in the cold. 

As they made their way towards the doors, Jaime could still not keep causing her to heat with her blushes as he purred, "I'd rather break a sweat beneath the blankets in our room, wench." 

After the days with him gone, the lure of stealing Jaime to herself and letting him murmur sweet and dark words in her ear, joining together to push out all thoughts of their surroundings, was stronger than ever. Even after so many times wrapped around each other and growing bold enough to seek the other out, Brienne was still surprised with how often her thoughts drifted to the moments that were just them, even the simplicity of waking to find they had managed to pass the night without disruption or bruises.  When had it happened that her favorite thing was his nose buried under her jaw and his hand laced through her own? 

But those were stolen moments, meant to be hidden and rare, treasures for her to search for and hold close.  And with one arrow, they could all stop. 

Now, though, Jaime would need to report on the bodies that had been found.  And something that tasted of ash and blood had tinged the air before his return, making Brienne sure something was coming to pass. 

Just as they reached the doors to the great hall, one was flung open, sending rolls of warm air steaming outside. Peck nearly bowled into them in his haste, face red and eyes wide as Jaime caught him by the shoulders. 

"Ser Jaime, you're back!" the boy exclaimed. 

"With that wit, I imagine you'd make a better maester than a squire," Jaime replied evenly. 

Peck reddened but stammered through. "I was sent to fetch Lady Brienne to Lord Snow's chambers.  I suppose they'll want you there, too." 

The two exchanged a glance, Brienne frowning and Jaime quirking an amused brow.  _A decision?_  

"How much did you bet on the bastard declining the seat?" he asked Peck as they were guided through the crowded hall, shouldering past the swirling mix of refugees and highborn and knights. 

"If Lady Sansa is still heir, I get a dragonglass dagger from one of the wildlings," Peck proudly called over his shoulder. 

They entered a quiet, dark corridor that led to the belly of Last Hearth.  "Dragonglass, eh? That's a mighty bargain.  What if you lose?" 

"I just have to kiss her," Peck shrugged.  "She wants a lord's kiss." 

Jaime laughed but Brienne huffed out in frustration, thinking perhaps she would have to brave an encounter with the free folk. But she suspected that Peck may not be in danger of losing his wager, even if he was looking at them confusedly now. 

"I'll explain to you later, Peck," Jaime finally said as they turned down hallways.  With the boy in the lead, he leered at Brienne.  "And you too, my lady." 

She blushed, as she always would, but she did not let him see the flit of excitement and embarrassment as she looked away, managing to keep her steps even. 

They finally passed through an alley, which opened up into a wide arc of chambers.  This was where the Starks had been placed, their bannermen close by in other wings. While the Lord Commander was also here, in order to give him time with his sisters, as Stannis’s envoy, the red witch had demanded to be given a room as well.  Having Renly’s killer so close to Lady Sansa and Arya worried Brienne, but Melisandre ignored the girls, only lifting her chin, red stone at her throat pulsing furiously when they were around Jon Snow. Still, Brienne did not leave her charges alone for long, if she could not track the priestess ~~.~~  

Outside one of the doors, two black brothers stood watch, dully eyeing the three visitors as Peck knocked twice before opening it and stepped aside for Jaime and Brienne to enter alone.  Already present was Lord Snow, seated at a large oak desk, his sisters, positioned in chairs across from him, and the bannermen. Most were in small groups scattered across the anteroom, some studying the maps at a table, clusters of candles dripping wax onto the parchment, and others taking warmth in the flames snapping and grumbling in the fireplace, a tapestry of the First Men hung above the mantle. 

But towards the dark recesses, where the sharp winter light could not reach, stood Clegane, Ser Addam, and Dacey. The Northern houses had not known what to make of the party escorting the Starks and so they had simply thought of them as shields, regardless that two were infamous knights known throughout Westeros, and the third, a lady.  As such, they were allowed access wherever the girls were and then promptly ignored. While that had been acceptable for Brienne, the Lannister men had made it a habit, and a game, of making their presence known at councils and, much to the ire of the other nobles, Lady Sansa, and thus her bastard brother, listened. 

Jon Snow nodded to them as they entered and took positions in the back.  “I would like to thank you all for coming to this meeting,” he solemnly started. “It may come as no surprise to learn that I will not be taking the seat of Winterfell.” 

Northerners were blunt, that much Brienne had learned during her time here, but even they were shocked into silence on hearing the Lord Commander open with his conclusion.  Arya was shaking her head, though Lady Sansa remained still, while Brienne caught her long fingers nervously smoothing a worn and crinkled piece of parchment in her lap. 

“Few know, though, that this is the second time that I refuse this proposal,” Snow continued.  “Before we knew that there were Starks still alive, Stannis Baratheon promised to take it for me.  With conditions, of course.” 

“The man has no right,” Lord Glover bristled. 

There was excited grumblings of agreement and Jaime leaned over to Brienne.  “I told you he’s not going to make a popular king.” 

“I must admit,” the Lord Commander raised his voice above the din.  “That a letter from Robb-“ the name was a catch in his throat.  He cleared it and looked down to the girls sitting before him. “To know that Robb would have wanted this of me, that he truly thought of me as family, made turning down this offer a second time much more difficult.” 

“We would have welcomed you home,” Lady Sansa replied softly. 

“We _want_ you home,” Arya interjected. 

“Thank you,” Snow smiled, though it felt misplaced and sad on him.  “But that will always be memories we hold closely.  _Home_ is what we fight for now. And I believe that you will lead the North well.” 

“We will follow you, Lady Stark,” Lady Dustin spoke up. 

Sansa twisted in her chair to look at each of her bannermen, and they were truly hers now, nodding and letting her soft lips turn up. But Clegane grunted quietly. “They’d rather a girl than a bastard. Not much of a trade.” 

“Both are better than Stannis Baratheon,” Ser Addam whispered out the side of his mouth. 

“Or the Lannisters,” Dacey snapped to quiet them. 

It did seem to Brienne that the nobles and common folk of Westeros had no hopeful choices in who would rule their land. But little did they know that no king could truly prepare them for what might spill through the Wall. 

As if Snow had heard Brienne’s thoughts, he continued on.  “And as Lord Commander, it is my duty to beseech you, Lady Stark, to turn your forces North, against the Others, rather than continue this war with men.  The threat of the Boltons has been quelled, for now, and Stannis Baratheon has agreed to work with the Night’s Watch to protect the realm.” 

Brienne could nearly hear the inhales of a dozen nobles as they prepared to voice their opinions on what Lady Sansa should do, but the young maiden was too quick for them all, making Brienne smile from her hidden spot observing them.  “Father taught us to respect and heed the duties of the black brothers,” she spoke so that even the bannermen behind her could hear.  “Should they fail, the North would be the first in danger, be it from wildlings or White Walkers.  He would provide what support he could.  And,” she had to raise her voice as murmuring erupted.  “So shall I.” 

“Well,” Jaime sighed and starting to edge towards the door as the lords and ladies converged on the Starks, all talking over each other and pulling the map table with them.  “Peck will not only get his blade, but he will be needing it, too.” 

“They can’t be surprised that Lady Sansa is willing to place her forces towards the Wall, rather than to the Neck,” Ser Addam said as he followed them out of the room.  “Stannis is helping them take back the North and if he thinks that the Others are worth his own army, then how can she refuse to sacrifice the one he has helped win for her?” 

Clegane grunted.  “If it’s between living men and dead ones, I’d rather fight something that can be killed with a sword, not fire and glass.”

It was fear that would drive some of the bannermen to convince Lady Sansa to keep them from the concerns of the Night’s Watch and Stannis Baratheon. Brienne could not blame them, since she was afraid as well.  But hiding now would only grant them a little time before the White Walkers made their way through crows and stags.  And they would be hungry for wolves next. 

As they left the chambers, Dacey tentatively reached to take Brienne’s arm, halting her from moving down the corridor. They paused, Addam and Jaime stopping with them as Clegane continued on, no doubt searching for a large mug of ale to drown in.  Dacey kept darting her gaze to Brienne’s face, her cheeks a pretty pink hue while white teeth worked her lips to a bright red.  No king, nor battle, nor journey had made Dacey as nervous as her shuffling steps revealed her to be now. 

“Brienne,” she said weakly.  Then, to Brienne’s surprise, she risked a glance at Jaime. “Jaime.  We…” she turned to Ser Addam, who smiled encouragingly. “Addam and I would be honored if you would witness a marriage.  _Our_ marriage, I mean.” 

Brienne blinked as Jaime laughed and slapped Addam’s back.  “Ser Addam asked for your hand?” 

“Well,” Dacey giggled and it sounded like icicles chipping in the melt.  “I asked him. Mother and I were having an argument and I’m just _tired_ of propriety. And I’m most certainly done with pretending to consider the suggested unions of the bannermen. When Stannis arrives, it will be even worse. I plan to take no man to my bed besides Addam and if that means marrying him, then so be it.” 

"It'll be a Northern wedding then," Jaime said. 

Dacey shook her head, black waves bouncing down her back. "There's no heart tree here. But as soon as we can find a godswood, we’ll perform the ceremony." 

"But," Addam added. "We also want our marriage to be recognized by the Faith and I did find a septon here." 

Jaime looked to Brienne, emerald gaze darkened by his lowered lids, the tug of a smile at the corner of his lips, but before it could twist into something of amusement or desire or anger, he kept in control. "My lady?" he rumbled. 

She blushed, though she knew not why. "We would be honored to witness this...blessed event." 

Dacey beamed.  "I'm going to gather my mother and some others and we can meet in the Mormont chambers." 

"You do not wish to fashion cloaks or perhaps to use the great hall?" Brienne blinked.  She knew highborn ladies dreamed of their dress, of the feast, the dancing, their handsome lord, of all the riches of their wedding day. Dacey was beautiful and while not a shy, tittering maid herself, she must still have hoped for a glorious celebration for the beautiful bride. 

But Dacey simply snorted.  "By the time we prepare a proper wedding, Addam and I may not even be in the same place."  _Or dead_.  It hung in the air but she swatted the fear of the future away with a dismissive hand.  "All I need is a man of my choosing and my friends and family.  Leave the lavish festivities to the poor girls that only have that to keep them from thinking about their wedding night beneath their fat, old lord husband." 

Brienne wondered if Dacey had come as close as she had to having such a fate.  "Then we shall see you soon," she agreed. 

"Before the evening meal," Addam told them and the couple left to prepare for their small rite. 

Meanwhile, as she left Jaime to bathe and report his scouting, Brienne imagined the little things that would change. Perhaps Dacey would move her belongings into Ser Addam's room.  They would be congratulated, even in the midst of war and winter, the men praising Addam for his new wife’s beauty and prowess, the women nodding knowingly at Dacey’s strong and young husband.  Some may be even brave enough to mention the notion of children. One day. 

Filled with such musings and curious to witness a wedding, Brienne passed her time in the training courtyard until Jaime returned to fetch her.  The sun had already dipped low and the threat of snow was swirling in the frigid air. Most of the others had already retreated to the fires, even the heat building from sparring was not enough to burn away the chill of the coming winter.  She was ready to warm herself inside as well, pleased that Jaime had brought out one of his thicker fur cloaks to replace the thin one she had donned under the bright sun that morning. 

Bundled tightly in what smelled distinctly of Jaime, a scent she had missed as his had washed away from their blankets and pillows each night he had been absent from their bed, Brienne followed him to the wing the Mormonts had been given.  Already present in the solar was Addam, looking nervous and freshly shaven, copper hair slicked back, in a crisp tunic and fine leather jerkin, most likely borrowed from some lord.  He stood beside a plump septon in plain brown robes, who was lighting thick pillars of candles besides small figures of the Seven.  With them was Lady Maege, Arya, Clegane, Peck, and a few others Brienne thought she recognized from seeing Dacey pleasantly converse with them, no doubt old friends since before the Starks left for King’s Landing. 

“Addam used to point out the pretty girls in Casterly Rock,” Jaime leaned in to Brienne, taking the chance to wrap his arm around her and run his nose along her temple as he spoke in her ear. “He could charm any of them, highborn and commoner alike, and he had no preference, with his smooth tongue or his skills with horse or blade.  But his talents were lost on enticing women and he soon grew bored with them all. He’s much better at leading men and planning raids.” Jaime chuckled, breath billowing down her neck. “Although that she-bear is nothing like what he toyed with in the south.” 

“Dacey is just as beautiful as other ladies,” Brienne frowned. 

He pulled away to look at her. “She’s comely enough, but Addam has had plenty of attention from attractive looking things. Dacey is more than that.” 

Before Brienne could reply, the doors to one of the bedchambers opened and Lady Sansa escorted Dacey through. She was in a gown that must have been procured by one of the maids of the house.  It was the color of pine with slashes of cinder in a full skirt that barely kissed the floor.  The bodice was loose but Lady Sansa had done a fine job pulling back the excess fabric so that the slight swell of Dacey's breasts, modestly hidden behind thick green silk stitched with scrolls of silver, could be seen.  However, there was little that could be done about the short, billowing sleeves that hung above her wrists.  Lady Sansa had braided back Dacey's dark locks in a Northern fashion, curls cascading down her shoulders.  With her hair and her blush tingeing her pale cheeks and a small smile bursting in her dark eyes, despite being in a dress made for one shorter and rounder than her, she was a lovely bride. 

Addam grinned back at Dacey, holding out his hand for her to take.  With a nod and a bow to Lady Sansa, she wove her fingers through the man that would soon be her husband and clutched his arm with her other hand.  Brienne watched as their palms squeezed tightly together and Addam kissed her cheek and whispered something in her ear. It was the most affection they had outwardly shown to one another in public and it reminded Brienne of how Jaime was still pressed tightly to her side as they watched from behind the others. 

"We are here to bear witness to the union of this man and this woman under the blessings of the Seven," the septon intoned. "First, we shall beseech the gods on behalf of this marriage.”  

Jaime groaned, earning him an elbow in his side from Brienne.  “No matter how hastily put together this may be, I suppose we still have to suffer through all the rites.” 

She would not tell him that she had never been to a wedding and had, as a child, imagined what the vows would be, how the bride must eagerly and reverentially give them to her husband. Nor would she admit how the thought of her giving them to one of the suitors her father had begged would have turned the words into soured milk in her mouth. 

“May the Maiden give up her claim on this lady to her lord husband.” 

“Dacey is hiding her blush well at that,” Jaime dangerously mused in her ear.  “I wonder how you would fair up there.” 

“May the Mother bless her with many heirs,” the septon droned.  “And the Father grant this man the wisdom to raise dutiful, strong, noble sons and to lead his house.” 

Though there was not a pause in the reading, Brienne saw Lady Mormont stiffen and she wondered if there was a fear in this mother of the earth that her daughter would never see a time that she could have and raise children.  _Perhaps I should make sure that Dacey has moon tea as well_. 

“May the Smith provide shelter and protection and livelihood.  And the Warrior give this knight the fortitude to return home from battle. But if the Stranger takes him, let it be with glory or with old age.” 

“I’ll take the old age,” Jaime grumbled. 

 _So would I, if only we had a choice_. 

“And may this lady survive the birthing bed to sleep beside her husband when the Stranger comes.  Through their days, may the Crone light the way on the path of faith.” The septon raised his hands and addressed all that was gathered. “Blessed are the gods and to those that worship them." 

"Blessed be the Seven," the group responded softly while Jaime rolled his eyes at Brienne. 

"Next come the vows of the duties of man and wife," the septon continued.  "Ser, repeat after me.  I vow to be true to the Father and be just over my lady wife and my children and my home." 

Addam opened his mouth to recite, but there was another voice, deep and low and just loud enough for only Brienne to hear. "I vow to be true to the Father and be just with my lady wife and any kids we may have after this war and any hut we make our own."  She turned to find Jaime staring at her as he spoke. 

But before she could ask him what humor he found in this happy event, the septon was moving on.  "I vow to be true to the Warrior, to fight bravely and dutifully for my house and my liegelord." 

Once again, Jaime spoke over Addam’s response. “I vow to be true to the Warrior and fight beside my wench and protect her, just as she will protect me.” 

Brienne huffed.  This was just a game to him, another sacred promise to laugh at. That was why he was searching her face, most likely enjoying how her jaw had dropped and her palms had become damp with sweat, catching his eye while he gave up promises. That was why he was biting his lip, keeping back the wide, teasing grin he reserved for mocking her. “Jaime, what are you-“ 

“I vow to be true to the Smith in that I will not shy from labor, nor from fixing broken things,” said the septon. 

“I vow to be true to the Smith,” Jaime murmured to her, his tone nearly beseeching in her ear.  “In that I will work hard to keep us together and I will try to fix us broken beings.” 

“Stop,” she hissed. 

“In all this, I vow, as I will pray daily until I open my arms to the Stranger.” 

Jaime smiled. “In all this, I vow, as I fight off the Stranger.” 

“Those are not the words, Jaime,” Brienne hissed. _It’s not real if they aren’t the correct vows, right? That’s why he has twisted them._   But as her heart raced and her breath burned in her throat, she knew that he had spoken truer declarations than those common ones made for any man and woman. 

“No, but I mean the ones I said more.” 

“My lady,” the septon turned to Dacey next. “Please repeat after me. I vow to be true to the Maiden, to protect the innocence in any woman and child.” 

Dacey echoed clearly for all, but Jaime was still watching Brienne.  “Say the words to me,” he said. 

“Jaime, these are oaths of marriage,” she snapped. _If I said them, they would be true._   She knew that, even if she did not want to admit how genuine she would want them to be. 

He growled and made sure that she met his insistent gaze, despite her attempts to pretend to pay attention to the ceremony. Yet, all she could see were blurred shapes behind the crisp silhouette of Jaime.  “I know what they are.” 

“I vow to be true to the Mother by loving my children and finding compassion for the other children of the world.” Dacey was already reciting her second vow. 

Brienne chewed on her lips, fearing that she may spew out her stomach if she did not keep her mouth closed. The sound of the septon hummed on as she tried to catch her breath from the piercing glare of Jaime stabbing into her chest. 

“I vow to be true to the Crone, gaining and passing on wisdom as it comes to me,” Dacey was saying. 

“I vow to be true to the Maiden,” Brienne whispered. She looked at Jaime and he held her tightly, nodding and watching her lips like he could not fathom how they had said the words.  “To protect the innocence of any woman and child.” 

He kissed her nose. “You are already very good at that.” 

“I vow to be true to the Mother by loving my…our children and finding compassion for the other children of the world.” They were already moving on to the promises and so Brienne hurriedly continued, hoping she would not have time to wonder why she was saying these oaths now, nor why Jaime had made his own.  “I vow to be true to the Crone, gaining and passing on wisdom as it comes to me. In this, all I vow, as I will pray daily until I open my arms to the Stranger.” 

“See, wench, that wasn’t so difficult to say,” Jaime teased softly.  “Though you could have made it more interesting.  Or at least thrown in the vow of the Warrior as well.  I wish I could forget how dull and archaic these oaths are.” 

And yet they had the power to make her feel young and light, as if she was buoyed in the oceans surrounding her island home, cleansed and glowing from the wash and scrub of the salt water. But each word was a stone pulling her down, muddling her mind, depriving her of much needed air. 

“Finally, the promises of the couple,” the septon continued. “Please, face each other.” Jaime released Brienne’s waist to stand before her and take both of her large, rough hands in his.  “Repeat after me. I promise to remain devout to you and chaste with all others, never giving in to temptations of the flesh.” Jaime began to quietly mouth along with Addam and Dacey, though he spoiled their breathy pledges with a pinch of her fingers and a leer.  “I promise to support and honor you.” Brienne quickly jumped in to catch up, following Jaime’s lead of silently speaking their own pledges. “I promise to live out my last breath as your husband or wife.  I promise to put you before all else, save my king and liegelord.” Jaime stopped before repeating the last part and Brienne could not help but smile at his refusal in even this simple, silent traditional oath.  “I promise to perform my duties as father or mother to care and nurture our children. I promise to do my part in providing wealth and nourishment to our family.  And, finally, I promise to rejoice and worship in the power of the Seven with you.” 

As Brienne looked down at Jaime as they said the vows, watching him study her, winking and rolling his eyes, feeling his thumbs run across the broken hills and the cracked valleys of her knuckles, she lost herself in the fantasy of being the bride.  But it was in finding excitement, not in giving herself to this man, bearded and haggard looking, dressed in black furs and wearing a feral grin, but in Jaime giving himself to her.  _He wants me, here at the end of all things._  

“With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife,” Jaime murmured. 

And suddenly, he was leaning in. Though they were at the back of the small crowd, anyone could turn to find that as Addam placed a chaste kiss on Dacey’s mouth, Jaime was capturing Brienne’s bottom lip, sipping and tugging so that she had to follow him as he tilted back.  He had only just released her from a kiss that had her toes tingling when they heard Dacey speak. 

“With this kiss,” Brienne shakily breathed. “I pledge my…love and take you for my…lord and…h-husband.” _Could this be real? Were they actually saying this, even if it was just to each other?_ “Jaime…” 

“The kiss is the only good part of this ceremony, wench,” he interrupted. 

She sighed, though it melted into a soft laugh as she tried to quickly kiss him.  Of course, he chased her retreat and managed to pull her into a second lingering, promise of an embrace as they heard the claps and cheers as Addam and Dacey sealed their vows. 

“Here in the sight of gods and men I do solemnly proclaim this knight and this lady to be declared man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them,” the septon happily announced. 

“Cursed?” Jaime huffed.  He moved forward to kiss her again, this time gentle and sweet. “Anyone who comes between us will be dead.” The man was a tumble of contradictions, hard and soft, jealous and free. And yet though they had been _one_ , for quite some time, Brienne could not pin in her mind when it had started, just that it _was_ and now would always be. 

“Not exactly the wedding a mother envisions for her daughter,” Lady Mormont appeared as she watched Dacey leave, wrapped up in her husband’s arms.  “But then, I was never a proper mother and my daughters were never good at being ladies. I am mostly shocked she married at all.” 

“Because she is a warrior?” Brienne asked, quickly shuffling away from the press of Jaime’s arm still wrapped around her hips. 

“No,” she chuckled.  “Because she knows that a man does not make a woman anything but weak.” 

“Perhaps the _right_ man helps make her stronger.” Brienne felt Jaime’s warm hand rest and squeeze on her shoulder. 

Lady Mormont grunted and tilted her chin, eyeing her from the side. “Well,” she sniffed.  “I’ve got what you asked for.” From the belt around her waist, she slid out a wrapped bundle, flat and long, and handed it to Brienne. 

“Thank you,” she replied earnestly. But the she-bear merely nodded sharply and left without even a glance at Jaime, who was craning his neck to study the package. 

“And what could the head of Bear Island be giving to you, wench?” he rumbled. 

“It’s to you, actually.” 

As the rest of the party milled out of the chamber, they followed them, though they turned away from the doors of the great hall, where the new couple would be eating amongst the others, few knowing that this was their wedding feast.  Jaime and Brienne instead found a quiet alcove with a cold bench to sit on, but not before he pressed her against the wall and used his teeth more than his lips to kiss her hard, leaving her heart and breath stuttering as her pulse dropped below her belly and, even in the frigid north, she was consumed in white heat. 

“I should be tender with you tonight,” he rasped as his beard scratched against her cheek.  “But I’ve been gone too long and the sound of your voice saying those vows is still ringing in my ears.” 

Brienne silently agreed, knowing that the memory of this day would be a pocket of her mind and heart, a warm place within her that would rise and burst when she tried to sleep and clung to when she felt fear overwhelming her.  They had spent many evenings together now and this one should not have been any different, not from the ones that overlapped and tumbled together nor from the ones spent far apart and filled with aching need, pushing out those that were only worry and loneliness.  And yet, as she stole secret glances at him as he tugged her to the seat, she felt flutters of excitement alight within.  And the knowing touches were suddenly tingles that raised her flesh and buried beneath it, digging out and carrying words and titles that had stuck to her long ago and she had feared unearthing them.  Tonight and every night after _would_ be different. 

Wordlessly, she handed him the bundle, hoping he would not see the flame of her cheeks making her look angry under her dirty freckles.  But her curious lion was too enthralled with pulling apart the strips of fabric, revealing first a handle of thick dark red leather and guards made of black steel. She took pleasure in the widening of Jaime’s green eyes as he revealed the blade of the dagger, his lips parting and curling into a smile as he watched it suck in the light and shatter it against glass deeper than night, undulating against the ripples in it like moon beams hitting a stormy sea.  

“Dragonglass,” he murmured, running his golden thumb along the end, just above the sharp edge.  “It’s cold.” 

 _Let it freeze anything that tries to take you from me_. 

He turned it and they both looked on as colors winked and shifted against the blackness, dark blues seeming to crash from within. “It’s like when I was blind.” He lifted his chin to gaze at her, as if to ensure that he was sightless no longer. “It was dark but I could still see some flashes.” Twisting his wrist more, he watched it catch the light. “But when you were near, it was always blue.” 

“B-blue?” she blushed. 

“Like your eyes,” he grinned as Brienne worked her mouth trying to search for what a lady or a warrior might say and finding she was neither in that moment.  She was a wild mess of a tempest, a racing heartbeat, a shudder of breath, and a bloom of heat like brilliant sunshine coating her skin through salt air, all barely contained within her ugly, large body that felt delicate and cherished next to Jaime.  He saved her from fighting words by pushing the hilt of the dagger towards her.  “You should keep this.” 

“What? No. This-this was a present, Jaime.” 

“A present because you want me protected,” he replied. “Just as much as I want you to be.” 

“I’m not a helpless girl,” she snapped, despite sometimes thinking that she was around him.  No matter how well she thought she knew him, he always hid a surprise. 

He laughed at her, as he always did. And regardless of everything, she swallowed the urge to knock him to the ground and watch him struggle to escape her strength, the beautiful smile sliding from his handsome face as he remembered what she was.  “But I am? Is that why you shower me with pretty things?” 

“No-“ 

“Precisely.  I will keep this gift only if you make sure you are also armed with dragonglass.” 

She had avoided the wildlings by hoping that Lady Mormont would have her own means of procuring such weaponry, as she had been carrying a new mace and a black knife recently, but she may have to approach the free folk for another obsidian tool.  It should go to the newly wed couple, as some small chance that they could be better prepared to survive this war, or perhaps Lady Sansa, in the horrifying situation where she was left to defend herself, or Arya, should she think she was a knight and sneak off into battle.  But Jaime would not stand for it, Brienne knew. She would keep the blade and make sure that she put herself before those she loved, who may not be as well armed. 

“Fine,” she sighed. 

“Nothing is ever simple between us, is it, wench?” 

“Life is not simple,” she muttered low enough she thought he would not hear. 

But he snorted and set his dagger aside so that he could pull her close, tugging at his cloak around her shoulders so that it covered her neck and ears better.  She let him fuss so that she could watch his jaw twitch beneath his silver and gold beard, his pink tongue running over his cracked, pale lips, and his green eyes darkening under the shadow of his lidded gaze.  _Mine_ , she thought as he finished and ran his fingertips along her jaw, just to touch, just because he knew he could, before he dropped them to her leg. 

Suddenly, from the doors of the hall, they heard muffled clapping and cheering.  Jaime chuckled.  “Sounds like the marriage was announced.” 

Then there was the clang and clatter of strings and metal and wood and the clumsy beginning of an attempt of a tune. Brienne had heard the echo and whisper of a solitary lute or a woodharp sneaking through dark corridors some evenings and now she listened to them take up a song amidst the beat of hands and the hum of a deep voice.   For a single, interminable moment, Brienne feared it to be the same one that she had heard standing outside the doors to the great hall of the Twins. She tasted blood and her vision darkened, fingers trembling, before the melody picked up and rescued her from the terror of her memories 

“Any chance to celebrate,” Brienne weakly forced out, looking at the cheerful light flickering across the floor towards their alcove. _The threat is not from within.  Not this time._  

“We should dance.” Jaime stood and she turned to look up at him as he held out his hand and flashed his white teeth at her predatorily. 

“No.” Dacey had wanted to dance that night as well.  Her rejection may have been what saved them both.  

“We’ve done it once before,” he pressed. 

She recalled the feel of his hand on her back, the tangle of their legs as she fumbled to let him lead her, his warm palm pressed to hers as it slid against her sweat.  It had been a challenge, a jest, then.  The captured Kingslayer and the outcast Maid of Tarth, hidden from the festivities as they glared across their own sputtering fire, as they had many a day. As they would more days after. He was her second dance. He was her last. 

With pressed lips, still unsure and tentative around this man that she had willingly bound herself to in the sight of the Seven, Brienne let him pull her from her seat and, with a familiarity born from all the times she had been his eyes, all the times they had huddled for warmth or for desire or for something more, all the times they had kept each other alive, Jaime stepped into her.  One arm was a sling from her waist to her shoulder and the other a jut away from them as their hips pushed together and his knee slid between her own. She tried to move first, of course, and he growled and shoved her back, using his body and his hands to turn them and keep her balanced as she stumbled backwards and he followed. 

Eventually, he had them swaying in a circle, feet shuffling shortly to the music.  It was different than the first time.  Now, she enjoyed having him close, letting him guide them, where before she had been filled with tense uncertainty, too wrapped up in comparing King Renly’s fluid grace when she had been in his arms, proper space between their bodies, to how Jaime Lannister had pulled her flush and glided through the steps like practiced sparring stances.  Surprisingly, there was never the spread of laughter or stories of the hobbling inexperience of the silly Maid of Tarth, dim enough to think even the Kingslayer would wish to dance with her, and she had tried not to recall the thrill of a man shifting against her when they had parted.  When he left her with the blood of her king drying on her armor and his sword on a horse for her, even another for Lady Catelyn, so that Jaime may return to his beloved sister.  

 _I know the look of a lovesick fool_ , he had told her.  She wondered what she looked like now. 

But he had come back for her, had not left even when his heroism blinded him, even when his brother was killed, even when the wolves were in the north.  _If I had known, I would still have come_. How those words had burned into her and kept her going through the days of watching him fumble in the darkness and the rest of the days of having him watch _her_. 

With a sigh, Brienne dropped her head so that she could press her temple to Jaime’s, her weight falling more on him as she was lulled by the rock of their steps, her free fingers drifting to the hair beneath his mane, by his neck, where he liked her to idly play. In the soft din from a hall filled with people and noise, safely hidden in their solitary spot, she let herself feel content, just for a heartbeat. 

And then a horn blasted in the distance, low, moaning, warning.  They immediately pulled apart, Jaime to snatch up the dagger at his seat and Brienne already barreling down the corridor towards the sound.  Vaguely she heard the music in the great hall stop or perhaps it was just simply swallowed in the scraping of chairs and the ring of plates as people stood and worried voices overlapped.  

 _No. Not yet.  I’m not ready yet.  Just a little more time._  

Below the pounding of her heart and her steps was the stomp of Jaime running after her. “Bloody crows!” Jaime snarled, pushing past her, nearly knocking her into the wall as he tried to stay in front, shielding her even as they both ran towards where the call had came from. 

 _What fools are we, running towards the danger.  The first to die._  

After a pause that had them launching up the stairs to the higher wall of Last Hearth, Jaime panted, “One blast, Brienne. It’s just one blast.” 

“Riders.” _This time._  

She slammed her shoulder into the door, letting in a stab of cold and swirling the torches at the landing, a final breath of warmth before they were both scrambling onto the walkway.  It was already becoming dark, the sun too far and too cold to venture across the winter sky for long, but Brienne could still make out the black robed man further down the wall, facing towards the north and intent upon his sighting, while more figures spilled from other doors. 

“What is it?” came the voice of Arya below them. 

Whirling back around to glare down the steps, Brienne saw the young Stark following Clegane, Dacey, and Lady Sansa. “Keep them back,” she motioned to the girls. 

Dacey turned to push and wave a grumbling Arya back towards the hall, but Lady Sansa tilted her chin and set her bright blue eyes on Brienne.  “I would like to see who comes to this castle unannounced.” 

Of course, she had to nod and bow her head as the maiden swept past her in her skirts hemmed with fur, tossing her hood up over her auburn curls.  Brienne shot her head up as Clegane trailed his new charge, glaring at the large scarred man, but he simply glowered back and shrugged.  

“Wench,” Jaime called and she and the Hound navigated the narrow path to where he stood with Lady Sansa, holding her elbow carefully as she leaned over the side to peer into the woods. 

When they approached, he gave her a warning look and tilted his head towards where Jon Snow hunched his shoulders against the frost and wind and ducked to speak to his Night’s Watch brother. At his side was the red witch, her deep red hair catching the last of the daylight and the gem at her throat burning in the shadows. 

“What is _she_ doing here?” Brienne hissed as she came to stand between Jaime and Melisandre, Clegane taking the other side of Lady Sansa. 

“Making this arrival a bit more interesting,” he snorted. 

“It is quite a large party,” Lady Sansa murmured, ignoring them both. 

There was perhaps a hundred bodies, most walking with tall staffs to help them along, but some were riding mounts even larger than Clegane’s beast.  They were moving fast and easily, despite the chill and the rough terrain, sprouting with snow melted mud slicks and sharp, loose rocks amongst the twisting roots grasping for purchase.  None deterred them, but they did not appear to raise weapons or attempt to hide their advance. _Were they friends, then?_  

Two riders seemed to lead, one was small, though, and Brienne saw the quick flash of copper curls in the waning rays of the sun, sprayed out in a wild nest above a mass of a fur cloak. Then, between the horses, darted a shadow darker than the others, streaked with smoke.  It circled around the legs of the mount, shooting out further before being called back to the smaller form. 

And then a dog howled.  No, Brienne realized.  _A wolf_.  But that was not right either.  Before she could work out what it was, it cried out again. It was the sound of a predator, of a ruler in these cold, quiet woods, hungry and demanding, sending gripping fingers down Brienne’s back. 

She heard a gasp, wondering if it was her own. But Jaime was turning to Lady Sansa, who was nearly hanging from the wall, mouth open and eyes staring sharply to the party.  “Shaggydog,” she whispered. 

Brienne frowned. “My lady?” 

Lady Sansa turned to her, still agape, looking like she had never seen Brienne, that she had not known where she was. “Rickon.” 

“What?” Jaime barked. 

“It’s Rickon,” she began to smile. 

“They are still far away, my lady,” Brienne hesitantly replied. 

“No, no,” Lady Sansa laughed.  “It’s him, I know it! It’s Rickon!” 

As the young girl twirled away from them and took Clegane’s arm, pulling him back towards the stairs, Jaime raised his eyebrows at Brienne.  Then, he smiled as well and grabbed her hand.  “Well, wench, it seems we’ve found not one, but _three_ Starks.”   

“Yes,” she breathed in surprise, looking back at the oncoming party.  They had survived so much, they had endured more, and still they remained, still they thrived. What was another battle, what was another night, or a thousand more, or an endless one? They were here and they were alive. She stood straighter against the growing night, drawing strength from the pressure of Jaime’s fingers wrapped in her own, as they watched the sun’s rays cling and cut into the white snow.  “Let winter come."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also have to thank the people behind the scenes that have been such a wonderful support group.
> 
> I have coveted a tamjlee comment since I started writing, long ago. As a reader, she understands all the nuances authors try to convey. As a shipper, she is well tuned to all the facets of these characters we love. Her comments make me, as a writer, feel accomplished and understood and connected. We were just starting to become friends right before I was ready to start posting this story and I was so terrified and wanting of her approval. What I got was so much more. I got a thoughtful and caring and intelligent and hilarious friend. I got not only her remarkable comments, that I will always treasure, on every chapter, but also further thoughts and discussion about the story personally. I got another kindred spirit, whose constant support and respect and love, about this story and about everything else we have dealt with in life, is a special thing that makes me feel whole. I don’t know what I’d do without you, tam.
> 
> My lovely muse jokertookmypicture and I met because she started reading this story. I have received so many comments and personal messages that have made me smile harder than I thought I could and I have read and reread them countless times. I have admired her gorgeous and inspiring art from afar for long enough that I still have to smack myself when I realize that not only have I had contact with her, and realized she is even more incredible than I had imagined, I can call this fabulous woman my friend. But not only that, she has given me something else to value as she has created breathtaking art for this story. I had never dreamed of jokertookmypicture drawing for me. I hold what she has done, all that she has boosted me up, all that she has motivated me and helped me grow, close to me. Thank you, my heart.
> 
> I also have to thank drifting. Conversations with her and jokertookmypicture have inspired many scenes in this story. And her personality is another spot of sunshine I want to call mine. She has never failed to boost my spirits and make me smile. She can give me distractions or focus, depending on what I need, but always she gives me friendship.
> 
> Lady of Tarth drew the first piece of art for this story and I still get butterflies when I think of how shocked I was to see it on her tumblr, and how it took me a long time to actually accept what my eyes were seeing. It was one of my favorite scenes, created and made alive by one of my favorite artists (and writer). And it came at a time that I was so unsure of continuing to write that it propelled me to continue. And I have looked back at that and it still to pushes me, because Lady of Tarth believed in me.
> 
> And Ro_Nordmann is also someone that I really need to thank because the banner was another huge boost to my confidence. Every time since that I’ve updated, I’ve added that with a great amount of pride. I tried very hard to not hope for a banner at the beginning of posting, but I can’t help my overwhelming happiness at having it, and it being so perfect to every part of this story. Thank you for the work and beauty that has given me great enjoyment and assurance.
> 
> I told myself that if I entertained one reader with this story, that I would continue and all would be worth it. I hope I did that. But at the end of this journey, I have been given friendships and gifts that I am unworthy of, which have brightened and filled my life, and that I promise I will constantly build and hold dear to me well after this piece has had its last reader. I have no words to express my appreciation and my love. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> LLLLLLOOOOOOOVVVVVEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> The major plot points of this story have been outlined about a year ago and I write chapters well ahead of posting them. I am aware that since creating this story, some plot pieces may have already surfaced in one way or another. I have decided to continue on with the original outline if I have already written the chapters pertaining to them. But not without consideration and respect.
> 
> I own nothing and I know nothing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stannis Baratheon: Wedding Planner](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883990) by [Coraleeveritas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coraleeveritas/pseuds/Coraleeveritas)




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